A Dragon Once

[Novaya Equestria]

[RETCON'd]

[Pordlandia]

For Want of an Army...
Against Eighty Thousand He Rallied the Field

Move those guns off of the ship! Narlok yells. We've got Franks coming and not a lot of time before then.

His words echo through the corridor of the VRZ Arctic Willow. The crash onto New Vulcan was brutal, but the inertial dampeners, the gravitic tugs (still circling above), and the vessel's own integrity allowed the bulk of the crew to survive the impact proper without much issue. And now her crew, faced with a ship incapable of flight, have taken it upon themselves to defend their vessel from the inevitable Frankish assault. With Kalanok already zooming far past the planet (and the green-flagged traitors not far behind them), should the legions of Atkane spot the downed craft it will not be long before investigatory parties are unleashed upon Arctic Willow and her stranded crew.

And so Narlok musters the vessel's complement into something resembling a fighting force. With a crew of sixteen thousand (accompanied by a detachment of Paramarines - the division Willow Arctic, named for her parent warship) he knows the force is not inconsiderable. In reality, however, far fewer than sixteen thousand Pords are available for defense. Ships don't run themselves, and even if a skeleton crew is left, only the Paramarines can really be depended on for any quality ground soldiering. He chokes back the thought.

A large hauler drives up to Narlok and comes to a stop; towed behind it is a towering artillery piece rolling on a set of treads. The barrel rocks slightly as everything is brought to a standstill; as it finishes settling, the driver-side window of the hauler buzzes open and reveals a Pord who leans out to yell down at Narlok: Half the ship's underground. Our exits are either walled in or too far off the dirt for us to use them, the driver calls.

Narlok scratches his chin. It's not going to be easy moving his troops into position. But he knows he needs to do so quickly lest they fall victim to orbital fire. He scratches his chin again: Leave the batteries on the ship, he says.

The driver shrugs. He pokes his head back into the cab and shifts the hauler back into gear; it screeches forward and begins to drive away.

At a hanger a few decks up, Pords stream out of the ship and into the surrounding countryside in a great ring surrounding the relay ship. The Paramarine infantry, glued firmly to the sides of floating tanks and infantry carriers, are quick to make their exit, but with them members of the vessels' crew clamber out into the dirt as well. The flames have begun to die down, making the exit much less hazardous than it otherwise would be. A small convoy - no more than a platoon of tanks with a wing of Chlümüchgrazhni gunships carrying a handful of Pords - eyes what appears to be a sign along the side of a half-destroyed road. It reads Tor'vrak, or rather it would if the Gel'durk writing were as sublime as the Pords' own script. They follow what remains of the road and soon come upon what appears to be a search party; the column drops out of the sky to skim along the ground and slows to a much more appropriate clip for doing so.

With decent spacing they finally come to a stop. The infantry emerge out of their gunships and off of the sides of the tanks and fan out. Two squads are sent to meet these locals - one with Paramarines clad in heavy Polynya armour, and another consisting of actual crew from Arctic Willow. Their own garb is far less aggressive than the Paramarine armour; they wear no headgear but have knee-length tunics with stylized embroidery along their sleeve-cuffs and collars. Belts around their waists hem these in with blue trousers to accompany them. Charcoal-hued boots serve as complement, and they all are carrying what appear to be large battle rifles. They have wooden stocks and even from a distance appear masterfully crafted, and if not for perhaps their size (somewhat bulky - but not too long - with twin drum magazines) they give no outward indication of being built for a star-faring power.

The lead, Chükor, stands against the wind. Thick smoke wafts over his head carrying batches of dust, no doubt kicked up from the horrendous previous bombardment. The air, dry and tepid, cakes the filth onto his face and around his lips and nose. He tugs his sleeve. Wrapped around his left arm is a black band with deep blue Pordic script upon it; they are symbols spelling "Arctic" and "Willow," the indicators that Chükor does indeed hail from the vessel. To his sides advance standard-bearers: one with the flag of Greater Pordlandia, another with the glorious but much more plain standard of the VRZ. Two infantrymen, also dressed in long tunics with armbands and cobalt-blue trousers, walk to their flanks. They lug large rifles as well but appear to be holding them at relaxed angles. They come to a halt as they see the locals nearing through the smutty haze.

Doubt they speak Pordish, a Pord to Chükor's side calls. A likely story, all things considered.

Chükor grins slightly. The dust and heat alone are reason enough to assume they don't. Fortunately, he does have a translator and, for better or for worse, it is set to Gel'durk. He addresses the matter directly:
No, and I will admit my Gel'durk is rather rusty.

The other Pord chuckles. Rusty, he calls it, the Pord says. A few others overhearing the commentary join in on the laughter.

My Ishii and Basic are a bit better, Chükor continues to add. His grin turns into a slight laugh at the thought. But I digress. We aren't here to scare these people.

The comment draws no reply. They are acutely aware of the fact there is little to gain in antagonizing the locals. Could've just flown over them, a Pord states.

Chükor's grin fades away. The Paramarines had said something about why they needed to do this here and now but the exact logic behind it has escaped him, at least for the time being. And the air is stale and terrible. He exhales deeply and double-checks his communicator as the locals appear to be nearing audio range.

You are nearing the crash zone of the VRZ Arctic Willow, relay ship of Kolnaq's Brigade, Hyth's Division of the Imperial Nalydian Voznayte Rekazhgrazhni Zhamra, he calls out through his translator.

[Ella2 6]

Jefferson's Folly

Around New Vulcan
ESS Temple of Orion
Admiral Ray Jefferson

The Morimpan lines bent and twisted before the Ellian assault, giving a foot for each inch the Ellians advanced. Upon the bridge of the Temple of Orion, Jefferson watched on with grim satisfaction as his enemy retreated before his fleet. Blood had already been shed today, and while Ray could not say that he knew the Commodore who had died here only an hour or two ago very well, he knew the man by his track record. Sagen was a man that performed his duty to the fullest extent of his capability, regardless of the consequences. There was not a task that he had failed to accomplish in the past and the fact had him shortlisted for a promotion should a position open up. Ironically, the devotion that had made him and had also killed him in the end.

Yet, at the same time, Ray felt a touch of empathy, if only for a moment, for the Morimpans that opposed him. They too have made themselves accountable to their star state to the highest possible standard and the drifting husks of their battered warships was a testament to the fact. Ray found himself wondering what the Morimpan gunners were thinking when they destroyed Sagen's patrol. Was it indifference or pity? Some small part of him hoped that it was the latter.

The Pordish engagement with the Dominion of the Black Sun, which had mostly been ignored by Ray, was brought back to his immediate attention as the gargantuan form of the VRZ Glacierrend seemingly collapsed upon itself. Otherworldly energies streamed outwards from the once graceful bulk - now reduced to a twisted mass - and warped around the ship, tearing through whatever outcropping superstructure those tendrils of destruction could lay their dreaded tentacles upon and ripping them free of the vessel's exterior. Explosions rocked the craft and, now, Ray could see with harrowing clarity the great gulf which tore indiscriminately through the splintered hull of the Pordish warship, devouring all which came into contact with is demonic glow. And in but a mere flash, the vessel was gone.

Clearly, otherworldly forces were at play in this campaign and the Morimpans have aligned themselves with some strange power capable of summoning such apparitions. For the first time since arriving in the system, Ray doubted that he would be able to return home in one piece. He stood there, gaping, rooted in awe for a few seconds as his mind struggled to comprehend what he had just bore witnessed to. He stood there for prehaps a moment too long and in his amazement, he had neglected to acknowledge the most recent development in his immediate battlespace.

The tide has shifted.

"They're closing in behind us, Sir," someone yelled in warning, "we're being surrounded!" Ray cast his wild eyes across the bridge but failed to identify the speaker. He turned to the rear canopy and sure enough, the Morimpan cruisers were falling in behind them on either side, moving to outflank his fleet. He slumped down into his command chair, fighting back the panic which had threatened to grip him. Burying his face in his hands, he sighed deeply in an attempt to calm himself.

"Dice, get me some information on the situation," he ordered without looking up, though he was uncertain of exactly what type of information he was looking for. But it felt like it helped the nerves a bit, trying to get back in control of things. He rubbed his eyes and looked down as he realised his right leg was trembling nervously and elected to stand back up.

"They're around us on all sides, Sir," the observer began unhelpfully, "it's all clear above and below us, but they'd be able to catch us in a pincer movement if we tried to go out that way."

Ray studied the blockade directly in front of them and frowned. "What's our speed, Cropper?"

"We're full ahead at the moment, but it's hard to tell since she's listing to port," the clone pilot reported as he yanked at the yoke, "I can ease her off slightly and we'll look like we're headed for that patch of cruisers there." He nodded his head towards a cluster of relatively damaged Morimpan cruisers to their left. "That might give us something to work with."

Ray smiled in appreciation, though the helmsman would not have seen. "Thanks, Cropper. Signals, have all vessels go full ahead and continue forward in a straight line. Tell the command core to mimic our movements, but stay on course. On my word, break into emergency speed."

"Aye, aye, Sir. Relaying orders."

Ray left Gleam to his task and watched closely as the Morimpans completed their encirclement manoeuvre, the two long arms of ships joining to form a rough ellipse around them. "Alright, Helm, start easing her off." Clapper shouted his acknowledgement and allowed the imbalance of the damaged thrusters to turn the ship on its yaw axis, realigning it slowly with a new heading aimed towards the weakened section of the Morimpan line.

"Should I fire the strafe thrusters, Sir?"

Ray considered the question briefly and shrugged. "We might as well put on a good show, just make sure we can get back on course." He felt the vessel braking, as the strafe thrusters were fired and behind them, the rest of the command core mirrored their action, in turn, angling off their craft on what appeared like an attack vector on the Morimpan cruisers. The Morimpans responded in kind, bringing their vessels about into a clump in the area around the position in an attempt to boost the firepower in that part of the line. There was a brief lag in their movement, courtesy of the massive volumes of water carried aboard the Morimpan craft. It was this delay that permitted Ray a chance to escape from the entrapment.

By now, the rearmost vessels of the arrowhead formation the Royal Scouts had adopted had made their way to the front of the formation and the elaborate network of overlapping shields was beginning to break up, sacrificing the protection of the boosted shields for speed in an attempt to charge out of the encirclement. Upon the Admiral's order, the formation loosened further with the activation of emergency speed. Substantial amounts of additional power were fed into the powerful thrusters on the Ellian warships, threatening an overload, and strafe thrusters, where applicable, were fired to further the acceleration of the warships.

The Morimpans were sluggish to respond, having thrown their bulk forward eagerly to block the supposed escape route of the Ellian fleet, they now struggle to bring their crafts back into an adequate formation necessary to counter the sudden speed boost the Ellians received from their emergency acceleration. The two forces glided past each other and in their proximity, it was only natural for the Ellians to have the parting word. The turbo blasters roared and brilliant blue bolts of energy streaked across the gap between them. With near instantaneous transit, the Morimpan vessels could not hope to manoeuvre against them. The closest Morimpan ships suffered the most damage as the volatile substance tore through their shields and hulls.

As the Ellian fleet slipped free of the fiery grasp of the Morimpan Dragon, Ray turned back to look at what they left behind. Two dozen forms of the Dominion's finest vessels had fallen pray to the Morimpan missiles during the later half of their escape, where the protective layers of overlapping shields had all but disappeared. And now, more pressing issues had surfaced from with daring escape. The damaged engines which had overclocked themselves with the activation of emergency speed collapsed upon itself, taking out the entire bank of port-side thrusters with it, leaving the battered flagship of the fleet without a reliable source of propulsion. And the Morimpans, who had recovered from their disposition, were closing fast.

---

Pulling the Strings

Arriving at Rastho Prime
ESS Soldier Dawnlight
Rear Admiral Herbert Ingram

Something was wrong.

The pitch black of the isolated void within the warp bubbles was slowly fading into long streaks of dim lights as if someone had taken the stars themselves and stretched them across the windows before them. These pinpricks grew brighter by the second and slowly contracted in length. Something else was also present in the picture as long grey entities faded into existence. Time also seemed to slow down and a strange paralysis had seized Hebert as he watched on helplessly from his command chair. The only thing that seemed to work was his mind, where the horror of the situation exerted itself. He felt the urge to scream, but for the moment it felt like he had no mouth.

The world outside slowly returned to normal after what felt like an eternity of numbness. The vessel slowed to a halt and motion returned to the scene. Herbert glanced around the bridge in bewilderment. All the other starsailors were feeling the same confusion, their uncertainty was, for a moment, the only thing that registered on their faces. Something else was also afoot. The warp bubble did not burst like it normally did, instead, it simply faded away into nothingness. The fact that they had just exited warp had not registered on the scanners and all the energies trapped within the warp bubble disappeared with it, untraceable.

"What the hell just happened?" He demanded and was met with blank stares and shrugs from his crew. "Did everyone feel that just then?" The reply was positive this time.

"Sir, it wasn't just us," the signals officer stated, "the other ships in the fleet are also reporting the same thing."

Engineering perked up after some time. "Our data suggests that the warp drive failed. Something caused the heat to rise too high and the circuit breaker got tripped."

"Find out where we are," Herbert ordered, "everyone else, back to work."

There was a strained silence in the room as the sailors resumed their work. Essentially, everyone who was not part of the flight or engineering department had nothing noteworthy to report and were felt to wonder exactly what had happened. It took a while for navigation to locate where the ship was.

"Sir, we're sitting in the orbit of Vaizgamtas in the Rastho Prime system, 9AU from our warp destination." Indeed, Herbert realised. The dusty world below fitted the description of the planet mentioned in his memo. "We'd have to make the rest of the way there at sublight," the navigation officer continued, "It'll take an hour, roughly."

It was at this moment that the crisp voice of the ship's AI, nicknamed 'Byrdie,' chimed in, added to the confusion on the bridge.

Welcome to Haven Software Systems.
Welcome aboard the ESS Soldier Dawnlight, Captain, and greetings.
This is HSS AI 'Byrdie' speaking, ready to serve. Glory to the Dominion.

There was a pause before the AI summoned itself onto its screen beside the Admiral's chair. Its avatar, a blonde lady clad in the Starforce's ceremonial armour bowed in greeting before the Starforce's crest appeared in its place, rotating slowly on the screen. After about ten seconds, the AI's avatar appeared once more.

Apologies, Admiral Ingram. Connection with E-LAWN servers was disrupted and the system required an emergency reboot. I've taken the liberty to reset the vessel's warp drive.

Herbert nodded and waved the apology aside. "What caused the disruption?"

We do not yet know. E-LAWN is working on a solution.

Herbert was about to say more when the observer interrupted him. "Sorry, Sir, but we are detecting roughly ten thousand ships in-system. We've located Admiral Jefferson's Fleet, but they're not responding to our hails, orders?"

"For now, just get us moving towards Nos'Goth. Have us broadcasting a neutrality signal until further notice. If we don't disturb anyone, hopefully, they'll leave us alone for now." Herbert directed his next command to the AI's avatar. "Byrdie, try and contact the Royal Scouts."

According to E-LAWN, the Royal Scouts has been reported MIA two hours ago and presumed destroyed. Current recommendation is to place the fleet under arrest as soon as possible.

"Alright then," he agreed, "all hands, battle stations. Plot us to intercept the Royal Starfleet, have the transports continue on to Nos'goth with their escorts." The admiral's orders were quickly relaid through the fleet and the 1st Starfleet split off into two groups. The transport ships carrying the 1st Division of the Clone Army was lead away by its escorts while the flagship and most of the capital vessels in the fleet branched off, heading towards the Royal Scouts.

---

Canteen, Deck 65
ESS Temple of Orion
Clone Private 'Bruce'

His head throbbed, blood pulsing aginst the tight bandage around his head which staunched the blood from his temple. The right side of this body was charred by explosions, and where the heat had not vaporised his clothing the plasteel armour was welded into his skin. He muttered something inaudible. A curse? A prayer? An utterance about a loved one? No one really knew. He moved his hand in some minute circle, shaking, pointing, in some vain, desperate attempt to try and communicate something as the medics carried him out of the canteen on a stretcher.

Bruce watched on with a heavy heart as they evacuated the wounded from the engine rooms. The smoke had begun to sting his eyes at this point and breathing had become labourious. He took a swig his canteen before replacing his helmet on his head, tightening the air seal around it as he did so. Rockhead stirred beside him after some time and eventually came to his feet. He glanced around, coughing as the movement caused some pain in his chest. "This one's alright," he said quickly, "I've patched him up as best as I can, the medic can do the rest."

Bruce nodded quickly, though he heard none of it as his mind was occupied by the small electrical panel in front of him. He finished up with the minor repairs on the controls for the pair of blast doors and stood erect as well, rubbing the small of his back as he did.

An engineer by the name of Solder who was working on the more technical parts of the blast door dropped down from the roof as they finished up. "You chaps finished over here?" The two marines nodded. "Alright!" He exclaimed cheerfully, much too cheerfully for Bruce's taste. He closed the blast doors behind him and performed some final check to see if the device was operating as it should. "Hopefully, this would hold the fire back a bit. Anyways, let's go, we've got to get the ship's AI operational. You two care for a challenge?"

Bruce shrugged. "We can try. What do you want us to do?"

"I'll brief you through it once we get there, it'll be a lot clearer when you see it in front of you," Solder said simply, sealing the panels in the ceiling to hide the electronic beneath it, "it's basically brain surgery after all."

Bruce shrugged simply and followed as the engineer strolled out of the smoke-filled interior of the canteen. The man was apparently oblivious to the dead and wounded scattered around him, nor the medical corpsmen hurrying to assist those that could be saved. It seemed to weight no more on his mood than a feather. Bruce tapped on Rockhead's shoulder as he walk passed him. "We're going," he said simply in case his brother missed the brief exchange. His companion grunted and waved for a medic to take over his case before following Bruce out.

[The Dominion of Black Sun]

Dominion Deep-Space Frontier Fleet, DES. IEDUX-9870-0201-V
79 million kilometers from EU-28901
The 'Tallyhawl', a Castigator-Class Grand Command Vessel

Argus studied the creature before him. Calling upon centuries of experience in the art of examination, he observed the careful articulations of Nassos' face as he mouthed each word, making note of every minor gesture and action - all that could be determined through the limited view frame with which he was provided. It was an entertaining activity he engaged in that busied his creative mind in the midst of otherwise standard diplomatic parlance - the grey medium of discourse which laid the very foundations of further, more intriguing interactions.

“Very well then. Dominion ships will be allowed into orbit, but no further. Operations on the planet will be seen as a violation of our protection over the people below, and be answered with force... Is there anything else you wish to know?””

The Xeno Admiral Nassos' lips moved freely of his words - a byproduct of the translative service that was the very channel through which all vocal conversation could be held. It reminded him that these were strangers to the Lord-Star's guidance, ignorant of the sanguine bliss of its eternal glow, a pitiable existence at best. Aside from these musings, though, Argus turned to ponder the rather direct question - for indeed, there were many questions the Grand Lord-Admiral had for the foreign fleet commander, but his mind continued to wind around the very nature of the Olimpadans - how... similar they seemed.

"Yes, yes there is." Argus spoke, his words catching upon his thoughts, "Fleet Admiral, as I look upon you, I cannot prevent myself from realizing that you and I share many... characteristics." Argus sipped at his goblet momentarily without breaking his stare, his fingers feeling out the gemstones and detailings that were meticulously inlaid and engraved around the cup's delicate frame. He continued immediately, "The Dominion is no stranger to such.. anomalies, but since time immemorial there has always been the question of how to deal with matters such as this - such as you." Argus seemed to glanced out away from the viewscreen for but a moment, pausing on some idle thought, "I see such instances as an invitation to.. probe the mind of those unacquainted with our own reality. Pardon me if this is rather direct, but how is it your kind responds to such perplexing circumstances as this? What is an... Olimpadan philosophy?"" Argus framed his words carefully, every utterance explicitly crafted so as to mask any sense of outstanding curiosity, or unintentional disgust.

Ahead, several notifications appeared across the viewscreen - newly arrived data compilations which manifested themselves as the distance closed and the techships completed their comprehensive analyses of the situation. Argus briefly glanced them over, their contents rich in information that would provide him with a much better understanding of what precisely was ongoing, a degree of comprehension impossible to attain through mere verbal discourse.

Of course, Argus knew this already - there was a different sort of intelligence to be had here, a rare opportunity to enrich his own personal doctrine on the nature of the untamed cosmos, and those who inhabit it.

---

Westerian

A battle raged.

Engulfed by turmoil and fire, a world spun infinitely deeper in towards chaos. A paltry few days of brutal, ground-based combat had reduced a once idyllic urbanaeic world into a heavily embattled gravesite, populated now only by belligerent forces locked in constant, extraordinary conflict over the dying planet. Every minute of every hour saw the planet's surface glimmering with extraordinarily violent activity, shining dramatically through the heavy sheaths and bands of apocalyptic cloud coverage that now choked the entirety of the planet, acting as a mask to the horrific excesses of war below.

Above the ashen cloud coverage floated a sea of metallic debris that enveloped the war-torn world, a field of ruin inhabited by the burnt-out wreckage of Xeno warships and civilian vessels alike, their decimated frames drifting clumsily around the planet, bereft of all signs of life. Every so often, a particularly large husk would break from stable orbit, sending it streaking in flames down to the hellish surface beneath to rain down from above in cataclysmic fashion. Of course, ruined starships were not the only things that floated about in the space above the smoky planet.

A singular broken vessel floated in a slow spiral through the void, its hulking, blackened frame mimicking the final motions the ship underwent before its imminent demise. What remained of its form was swallowed by a sea of pulverized material, created in a battle that had gone on seemingly ages ago. The visage was almost peaceful, set against the glow of a fiery, battle-stricken planet, but this state of calm was not meant to last.

Something approached from a distance. At first, it appeared as nothing more than another star in the eternity of space, but with each moment its scale doubled. Before long, the curious object had become a mystery no more, as its definitive form had become entirely unmistakable - this was a Dominion machine ship of colossal scale, now approaching the field of debris with its vast maw fully extended. Ahead of the immense manufactory ship, bands of star-fighters and other autonomous vessels zipped by the still-drifting warship husk, filtering deeper into the field as the glow of the great machine ship's maw grew ever brighter. The nebulous, drifting clouds of debris slipped away from their idle positions, slowly funneling into the immense maw that approached; the xeno warship itself was now bathing in the fiery glow of the great maw, as it too slowly began to shift towards the hulking Dominion vessel. It took but only a few minutes before the entirety of the war husk was slung into the waiting jaw of the machine ship, its form vanishing into a haze of raw energy alongside the tormented frames of several other ships which clattered and heaved their fractured forms into the hellish abyss.

The scene was one of many. A vast fleet of machine ships had descended upon the world, gorging themselves upon the scavenger's feast that stood between them and the planet. Swarms of xeptomata flushed out from their great depths, decomposing any debris too large for a machine vessel to devour singlehandedly before leaving what remained for the hulking starships to consume. The gluttony had been going on for days, and under the current circumstance, would continue for many days more, until every scrap in this orbital boneyard was reduced to subatomic matter. The purpose behind this recycling process, however, was not to cleanse the world of all obstruction from view, to erase all memory of the atrocity that had gone on not too long ago - such matters were of no concern to the Greater Dominion.

By command of the Storm Prince-Admiral of Dread Fleet AXXOTA, the presiding Dominion warmaster over this embattled world, the ground war effort would be sustained by materials purely sourced from the ruins of their foes; waste was wholly unacceptable when facing off against an enemy so pitiable and worthless - and yet, waste was all that could come of what went on here.

None dared challenge the authority of the Prince-Admiral; his word was absolute, his authority infinite. These were facts well established, so so it seemed - but there was talk; rumors spread, carried by whispers and covert conversations. Although none dared state the reality of the situation as it was, the truth had been plain for all to see for a great deal of time now:

The the war was won, the enemy had been pulverized, their worlds razed and population all but completely erased - this having been attained within the first few days of full engagement. How, then, did but one virtually defenseless planet stand between the Dominion and its seemingly absolute victory?

The answer was simple; it did not.

---

The pale light of the system's star gleamed in upon a massive hall, flanked to the east and west by towering view screens stylized as great windows. The grand space was baroque to an extreme, not only extraordinarily large but crafted with a measure of detail and intricacy that spoke of a wealth beyond comprehension, leaving no element to the mundaneity of lesser excesses. The sun rays reflected dazzlingly off of the highly polished, mirror-like floor of lavish black stone, its surface broken into a rhombic grid of plates, the marbling of its composition and glimmering in the harsh light of the distant xeno sun.

Towards the northern end of the hall, two golden colossi stood vigil over the vast chamber, each tightly clasping a sword and shield, their armor akin to that which the Dominion's proud Knights of Splendor traditionally adorn. Their backs were faced against a brilliantly-illuminated stained glass window, depicting the emergence of the Black Sun and the ascension of Mankind to become the Preferred race amongst the stars. Underneath this great visage, two unidentifiable figures stood facing one another; one of smaller, more delicate build, shining a brilliant gold in the hard light, the other tall and imposing, composed of dark forms that concealed their figure. Their distance made all finer features presently unknowable.

"Shall I announce you will be attending the All Honors Ball this evening, Your Grace? Your Grace?" A voice spoke as it traveled through the massive void, its tones unmistakably those of a servitor. Another voice replied, certainly that of man, dire in its tone and grave in depth.

"I will not."

"Of Course. I shall reschedule it for a later date," The servitor's comparatively cheery voice aimed to appease.

"No."

The voice was listless, wholly uncaring for the machine or its pleasantries.

"Quite acceptable, My Liege - forgive my foolishness. I will alert the Navicrats that although you will not grace them with your presence, the celebratory occasion will proceed!" The machine spoke, its distant form seeming to acknowledge the dark figure's indifference with all the same eagerness as it had started with, wholly unphased.

"Celebratory" the voice uttered with a measure of hilarity and disgust.

"To commemorate the imminence of victory over yet another inferior Xeno subspecies - to claim your grand achievement under your skillful guidance, Prince-Admiral, and thus it proves to be brilliant occasion to celebrate." The servitor's frame bowed; the dark figure remained still.

"And yet I still see only a darkness upon my horizon..." The figure seemed to mutter as it turned away from the servitor, approaching the foot of one of the two colossi.

"Your Grace?" The servitor asked, perplexed by the nature of the comment.

The figure pulled something from within its mass of dark shapes, a small, silvery object, raising its right arm up at the servitor, and discharging it with a loud 'crack'. The machine's smaller form crumpled as debris flew backwards, skidding across the mirror-like surface below. The clattering of the automata's body to the ground reverberated throughout the tall space, its disfigured body scraping upon the floor.

"Damnable machine," The figure hissed.

The onyx floor began to tremble. Within moments, the imperfection caused by the servitor's death vanished without clear cause, and yet not long after that, the disabled wreck of its body sunk into the floor like tar. A subtle groan echoed through the space from the ground as the machine slowly disappeared, but soon, its figure was completely removed. The placidity of the ground was restored by the marvels of the Dominion's efforts to achieve perfection in every aspect, no matter the circumstance - there was no detail too small to go uncorrected.

Silence eased its way into the space once more. There the figure stood, his frame motionless, lacking in all sense of expression or concern for the realities which surrounded it. In lieu of such dynamic gestures, an air of suspense swept into the void - there was much to be done, and yet so little happening. Moments drifting by like idle scenery strained upon the stillness of the chamber, seconds drifting into minutes, and minutes dragging on towards an hour of utter inaction. But then, without seeming prompt, the figure broke the still scene.

The Prince-Admiral acts.

"Campaign Status Report. Brief." The voice floated across the space; another called down from the heavens above.

Of Course, Storm Prince-Admiral

Code: Select all

---
Campaign Status Report [#090927-70781]...
---
Ground Force Mission [Orbital Assistance Requested, Confirmation Pending]...
---
Mission Completion Status: Incomplete; 99.99%...
-
Mission Efficiency Status: 02%, [See Permissions]...
-
Primary Objectives: Attained...
-
Secondary Objectives: Partially Attained...
-
Tertiary Objectives: Unattained [See Permissions]...
---
Xeno Resistance is problematic...
---
Forces at disposal sufficient [100%+] to meet all Pending Permissions Requests [See Permissions]...
---
Casualties remain within UNACCEPTABLE levels by the Deployments standard, Honourable Storm Prince-Admiral. IMMEDIATE changes to standing procedural plans are necessary, and have been prepared for you to review; they are estimated to improve mission efficiency by [98%], and will reduce mission completion time from [99+ days] to [5 hours]...
-
[Review plan proposals?]...
---

The visual text screen, enhanced by an over toning voice which read the details aloud, sat plainly before the Prince-Admiral, bathing his dull figure in an orange glow. Removed from the veil of mystery that distance afforded, his form was brutal - harsh and imposing, a cruel man overhulled in dark wearings which muted his more defining features of physical stature. With a countenance unphased by the otherwise abysmal figures that rested before him, it was clear change was not approaching at any point soon. Such observations were gratified with verity by the dismissive brush of his hand, a gesture which dissipated the holographic projection, restoring the material calm of the space.

This was not the first time he'd viewed such a document, nor were its contents of any surprise to him - the Prince-Admiral was always acutely aware of the situation at hand. However, his listlessness and seemingly ambivalent attitude was not something he was famous for - quite the opposite, in fact. The Storm Prince-Admiral Lysander Westerian, proud heir to the great House Westerian, was a cool and vindictive creature, loyal to his country, mercilessly methodical, and lethally concise. He was never one for ostentatious affair, but his seat always afforded him more attention and grandeur than he would have liked.

At present, though, the quiet, confident, calculated man that usually prevailed seemed nowhere in sight. Nigh-despondent and motionless, a great trouble seemed to be turning over in his mind, his eyes frozen in a state of visual awe, his stiff facial features tantamount to the gleaming colossi that he stood between. If there was any emotion at all to be defined, the nearest would be fear, or perhaps despair - the visual effect from the man's still visage belied little other than some grim revelation. Whatever the case, it was a spell that had stricken him for days on end now, postponing his glorious campaign through deeply-entrenched Xeno territory indefinitely.

But in the Dominion, such things simply did not happen - stagnancy held no place in the heart of the Beacon.

After a still few minutes of utter nothingness than the placid calm that sat across the grand chamber, a voice beamed down from above - the same autonomous voice from before.

Attention Storm Prince-Admiral, due to recent and immediate changes to system protocol, a priority transmission from the D.S.F.V. Tallyhawl will now be played for your hearing, followed by a Facsimile visitations.

Westerian's face seemed to change from subtle surprise to a growing sense of unease.

"I will not have it." He declared aloud, shouting up towards the sharply-vaulted ceiling.

Apologies, Your Excellency, but due to recent and immediate changes to system protocol, your w-wise auth-

The voice shuddered, then died out, shooting a chill down the spine of the Prince-Admiral as he gripped the glossy, silver instrument, the weapon he brandished as a means of personal self defense. All around, the peaceable view of the space beyond seemed to shudder, before vanishing in its entirety. Darkness swallowed the vast interior, the only light source the blood-red glow of the floor-lighting surrounding Westerian's small command desk.

A mere moment pressed by before the massive view screens returned to life once more, yet the the only visual displayed was none other than infamous seal of the Grand Lord-Admiral of the deployment itself - Argus Iseppien. Here was a man Westerian quite despised, but in spite of his grand societal status, the forces at work placed the man he so hated leagues above his own authority - a humiliating and vile situation he sought to ignore as often as he could, if not destroy it outright.

And yet, even with the icon's clear alignment, the Prince-Admiral still felt terribly uneasy - particularly in the abruptness of it all, the air of hostility that hung in the wake of this sudden and unexpected change of events, lacking in all common formality and procedure.

Before matters could begin to seem at rest, a voice roared from above. It spoke with all the authority of a king, and was every bit condescending as it was menacing.

---

"PRIORITY NOTICE.

STORM PRINCE-ADMIRAL LYSANDER WESTERIAN,

HIS EXCELLENCY THE GRAND LORD-ADMIRAL ARGUS ISEPPIEN HAS REVIEWED THE PROGRESS OF THE DREAD FLEET AXXOTA UNDER YOUR ADMINISTRATION, AND HAS FOUND ITS EFFICIENCY AND SUCCESS WANTING.

WITHOUT RECOURSE, HIS EXCELLENCY HAS WISELY ELECTED TO REQUISITE THE ENTIRETY OF THE FORCES UNDER YOUR CURRENT AUTHORITY.

IN THE INTEREST OF EXPEDIENCY, A FORWARD AGENT OF THE GRAND LORD-ADMIRAL'S HIGHEST OFFICES HAS BEEN DEPLOYED VIA FACSIMILE AGENT TO HANDLE ALL FURTHER OPERATIONS.

ALL ASSETS OF DREAD FLEET AXXOTA, HEREBY COMMAND FLEET AXXOTA, ARE NOW UNDER THE WISE ADMINISTRATION OF THE GRAND LORD-ADMIRAL, AND THOSE HE HAS DECIDED TO CARRY OUT HIS WORD FOR HIM.

STORM PRINCE-ADMIRAL LYSANDER WESTERIAN,

YOU ARE HEREBY DISMISSED."

---

The voice concluded its demeaning message abruptly, an event that was followed by the immediate return of external sunlight to the darkened chamber.

The Storm Prince-Admiral was left without words - there was little to be said, in truth, but the effect of what he had just been briefed with was still hitting him in waves of realization. But before any true emotion had the sense to manifest itself within, across the hall the, the great doors that sat opposite of Westerian had begun to shift.

Someone had arrived.

With much ceremony and strain, the doors swung apart from one another, announcing the arrival of a comparatively tiny figure - a woman, so it seemed, conservatively dressed but no less pleasant on the eyes. Her gait was powerful and energetic, the sound of her footsteps crossing the placid, glossy, black floor commanding all attention towards her entrance.

"What source of tragedy does the good Grand Lord-Admiral cite this time to thieve me of my rightly-ordained powers as commander of the Dread Fleet AXXOTA?" Westerian voiced with hatred as the figure continued their approach.

"Has our meandering lord gotten bored of life upon the Frontier so soon? Or perhaps he's once again dug himself a grave too deep to climb out of?"

The Prince-Admiral's mocking words bounced off of the steely form of the woman that was now but a few meters before him. He noted her pristine appearance, her features unnatural in their perfection - unnervingly so, as he found her hard to gaze upon for too long directly.

"Above all these crimes, quite frankly I am most displeased with the fact that he dares no appear before me himself to do such ill deeds. In his stead, he sends this to fulfill his misdeeds, a charmless creature without grace or honor.." Westerian seemed to begin to disengage, flinging his arm towards the still-standing woman as he turned away towards the room's edge. In the fractional moment he turned his gaze away, the woman crossed the distance which stood between them, her tiny figure bringing the much larger man down upon the desk he presided over. The distinct crunch of bone material came before the strained yell of the Prince-Admiral as his arm was forced into an unnatural position around and under the steely desk, bowing and deforming it as the extreme force was applied.

"Is this.." Lysander groaned through his pains, "...an assassination?"

His words evinced a subtle smirk from the female, and she relented in her force. She threw the larger man to the floor, his figure clutched around his now heavily-disfigured limb - he did his best to contain his suffering, which escaped in animalistic snarls and muffled groans, preferable over pitiable shrieks and tormented howls.

"Storm Prince-Admiral Lysander Westerian," the voice began - unmistakably in the same manner as he had been addressedpreviously, in both its condescending tone and authoritative tense - "The Grand Lord-Admiral has sent me to oversee all operations of this fleet while it is under his direct administration. I am Etna." She stood over him, her visage piercing and hostile, disgusted by the sight that laid before her.

"I will not pretend.. to know who... or what... you are. But faces.. and names do not simply... appear and disappear," Lysander spoke in a harsh voice, forcing himself to his feet as he concealed the heavily wounded appendage beneath his clothing. He towered over her again, leaning down to bring his face level with hers - a daring move in spite of the clear danger she still presented to him. He continued, "You.. are nothing. I know you are... nothing. I have seen many faces, but none... such as yours. I can think a thousand names... of the top of my head that would fall into this damnable place... before anyone such as yourself. What.. makes you so worthy of such an... esteemed position?" Westerian strained as he paced towards the Western viewscreen gallery. The female figure let out a curt chuckle.

"There exists a mutual understanding between he and I. It is an accord struck under circumstances both immediate and extraordinary - it was a truly fascinating experience. Never the less, it has allowed me every right to be here - for me to do many things that will seem beyond the ordinary cadence of your society, for that is our understanding. And now, because of your grave inaction, your broad stupidity, and your wasteful tendencies, you and I will share an understanding as well." Her words were carefully chosen and spoken well with extreme articulation. Her eyes seemed to glow in the shadow of Westerian's larger figure, her own form proper and well-poised against the lumbering, hulking form of the Storm Prince-Admiral. She moved opposite he, her gait slow and elegant. She approached the Eastern gallery, the sun throwing her shadow ahead of her against the wall.

"I will have no such understanding, vile woman. I do not recognize your power over me - send for the Grand Lord-Admiral in your stead, perhaps then I can waste my breath on someone vaguely worth the effort, rather than speak to the detritus he affiliates with." Westerian scoffed.

Etna stood squarely across from him, the space between them vast and empty. Westerian was silhouetted against the light of the system's star, his form darkened by its comparative brilliance, while Etna basked in its glow, behind her resting the tormented world under eternal siege.

"You mistake me, Prince-Admiral. The agreement the Grand Lord-Admiral and I share is quite voluntary, its foundations buried in his capacity to see what is truly good for the Deployment and the Greater Dominion as a whole. What lies between us, here and now, is without question under my power." Etna's voice was severe, laden with sense of higher wisdom entirely befitting her form.

Before Westerian could retaliate, a notification called out from above, a seeming response to some unvoiced command..

CONFIRMED. RAISING ANCHOR.

A wave of shock and utter disbelief struck the Prince-Admiral like lightning, his whole figure turning to face the scorching brilliance of the distant star. Etna remained still, her hands delicately folded around each other, hanging by her waist. Her face was expressionless, her form resolute. She awaited the inevitable.

There, in the distance, the pale light of the distant star shuddered. As though it were nothing more than some frail and dying bulb of light, it flickered and waned in a graceless dim, leaving all that bathed in its cutting glare to the absolute darkness of the everlasting night.

Westerian motioned in the darkness, calling upon the augmentations to his physical form to provide him with sight in such absolute dark - and yet, there was nothing which responded to his commands; he was truly powerless. He turned to the burning world, its glow faintly escaping into the void, but where he thought to find the shadowed figure of the mysterious woman that had invaded his sanctum, there was but the openness of space. He paced across the floor, the apocalyptic glow of the war-torn world now becoming the only, faint source of light, an ominous beacon on the horizon - it drew him ever closer.

In the darkness around him, Westerian could here the occasional sound of footsteps, the misplaced laughter of some unseen mouth, sourcing from every which way through the black. He rested his functional hand upon the glass-like screen that towered over him, staring out at the world he had left in ruinous decay. He had watched it burn for days on end, reveling in the suffering and death that it had become a monument to - and now here it sat now, the only object in his view, the sole entity of his conscious mind. Soon enough, a revelation had come upon Westerian - the paralyzing sense of dread, of unreasoned terror and unending danger which had trapped him in place and brought him what would become perhaps his greatest downfall - now seemed to fixate itself upon the sight before him.

He pressed upon the surface with force, only to find it to give no resistance to his will. Instantaneously, the surrounding space he once inhabited appeared to vanish from all point of reference, and he found himself adrift in space. He neglected the clear and present inconsistencies with what was now all around them - in his mind, it was all quite well understood now.

He swam. As though in some fluid medium, he pushed forward, even in spite of his egregious injury - it phased him hardly at all now. His loose articles of clothing flailed and wavered in the force-less vacuum space, his greatest efforts put into forcing himself towards the only thing he could reasonably understand. And yet, as though some cruel, unseen hand were acting upon it, the world seemed to draw father and father away as his efforts increased in their vigor. Westerian struggled with all his might to make progress, but even his best efforts were meaningless here.

A voice appeared from the depths, rising from the endless space as the planet slowly vanished into the distance. It was mesmerizing, for even in its formlessness it carried a piercing quality which struck Lysander so intensely he ceased his motions all at once.

"Your mind.
Is.
A cracked mirror.

Most.
Only see.
The fractures.

They.
Do not see.
The imperfections.
Reflected.
On themselves.

But.

I.
See.
You."

A hand broke from the darkness, pale and delicate, extending out towards Westerian for him to grab. Every article of his flesh prompted him to take hold at once.

And yet, he could not.

The hand clenched into a fist, before vanishing completely. A growing roar seemed to overtake all of his sense, rising around him until it was wholly unbearable. He covered his ears from the deafening sound, but found nothing could blockade its unending thunder. He blocked himself out as much as he could from outside influence, clenching his eyes tightly together and clasping his hands ever tighter over his ears. His body was screaming, feeling as though it was blazing on fire, torturing his very soul. It felt as though it would continue for an eternity, an unending purgatory for his acts against the untold trillions which he uncaring erased. Above the sensations of horrific, unending pain, he felt sorrow, and fear, and disgust. He felt truly, unconditionally sorry.

And then, it was over.

He opened his eyes, and he felt as though he had awoken from some terrible dream. There he stood, behind his simple, small desk, staring forward down the sanctuary's length, his private space safely locked away from the noise of naval society.

He set aside those thoughts, each event which had preceded this moment feeling as little more than a fading day dream. He recomposed himself, and returned to the matters at hand.

Soon enough, though, he found the current affairs as they were uninteresting. For some great reason he could little explain, he felt a dread, a terror that came from the suggestion of making a single forward move. For days now, he recalled, they'd been sitting still around the planet Aspuiia, the all-mighty Dread Fleet AXXOTA motionless and actionless at the very cusp of ending the thus-far largely successful Iritrian Campaign. And yet, here they have been for some time now, and Lysander simply could not reason why, other than the clear and present senses in his mind which warded off any thought of changing anything at all.

As he mused, the doors down at the opposite end of the hall opened, and through them a servitor automaton peeped through. It loudly declared:

"Apologies for the unannounced intrusion, Your Grace the Storm Prince-Admiral, but I have some important schedule-related business related to current ongoing fleet affairs - I am sure you will find them befitting of your time."

Its speech was uninteresting, and could barely hold Lysander's attention. He gazed upwards at the two colossi which flanked his rear at either side, admiring their proud forms, before returning to face the smaller machine as it arrived before him.

"Firstly, the Lord-Admiral Tullius of IEDUX-9870-0473.IV has sent another appeal. Would you be of any mind to read it, Your Grace?"

Westerian eyed the machine, studying its fragile forms and complex mechanical features. He refocused himself on its central ocular, which constituted the majority of its "face".

"No, I am not."

"Of course, Your Grace - it was his folly, either way. Moving on, the subject of tonight's affairs. Shall I announce you will be attending the All Honors Ball this evening, Your Grace?"

Westerian's eyes had drifted away from the machine, to the right, towards the burning planet. For some time now it had been there, or so it felt - for far too long.

"Your Grace?" It broke his drifting thoughts; he replied curtly:

"I will not."

"Of Course. I shall reschedule it for a later date,"

Westerian thought on the matter. At first, he felt an immediate sense of anger - a rage that seemed to rise from nowhere but the notion of joyous occasion at so dreadful a time. He paused, the machine sitting idly before him, eagerly waiting upon his every motion.

No.

A voice in his mind called out. It was mysterious and foreign, but its suggestion seemed to prompt him the opposite way - Its mere attempt at guiding his thoughts repulsed the Prince-Admiral.

"Proceed with the dinner for the lesser Lords; inform them I am celebrating in private." Lysander commanded composedly, the machine gesturing in affirmation.

"Your wishes will be carried out, Honourable Storm Prince-Admiral. The Dominion shines this day, brightly as ever!" The servitor voiced enthusiastically.

Westerian nodded briefly before turning away from the automaton, leaving it to make a speedy exit.

And so the events went on as they would, for this world was one of fictitious replication towards an end, an end artificially produced by Etna herself.

---

---

CONFIRMED. RAISING ANCHOR.

The female figure of Etna's facsimile form stood over the body of Lysander Westerian, his mass swathed in the black material that composed the mirror-like floor of the opulent hall. It was regrettable that this was how things had to be, but the only way she could peaceably work with the fleet as it was would be to eliminate its weakest link - if only temporarily. How she amused herself with what remained, however, was purely at her discretion.

Her hands clung to the severely-deformed command desk Westerian normally would reside behind for hours on end, plotting out his future endeavors - he did no such things now. Rather than marvel around the space, Etna's manifested form looked onward towards the star in the distance. There, visible beyond the sea of grand warships that rested between her eyes and the gleaming light, a darkness stirred.

The Anchor of Scorch.

Far and away from the Command Fleet AXXOTA, the chaotic surface of the system's star was impacted by a grand surge of energy. Like clouds of fire, a swirling storm began to manifest, massive bands of raw energy streaked into the darkness all around the swirling stellar tempest, the center of which seemed to slowly widen and expand, stellar material seemed to collapse inwards towards some obscured entity embedded deep within the blazing sun.

Just as the commotion seemed to be having an increased impact on the global stability of the celestial object, a massive pulse of light and energy blasted out from the center of the twisting energy vortex, violently ejecting a dark, hexagonal bipyramidal object - the Anchor, now emerged at last from its immersed state, piercing through the veil at great speed.

In its wake, the star seemed to wretch at the expulsion of the comparatively small Dominion object, its whole surface shifting and undulating with powers unkind to its position in the natural universe - powers now unrestrained by the mediating presence the Anchor once provided. What the surface informed of was but only a small fragment of the torment the celestial object was failing to endure deep within - it was an unstoppable cataclysm, now rotting the sun from the inside out with alarming speed.

This established, it was now certain that this star's days were but few in number - longer than Command Fleet AXXOTA would remain, quite comfortably so - but little beyond that. This was an unfortunate biproduct of the Storm Prince-Admiral's problematic behavior as of late, something not even Etna could yet diagnose, an outcome which would render a whole star system ruined for many centuries to come due to his extraordinarily wasteful policies on warfare and unexpected ignorance. Even so, the time had now come to progress.

The Anchor of Scorch streamed through the void a great speed, its curious profile, many dozens of kilometers in scale, setting itself apart from classic Dominion naval architecture with its simplicity and cleanliness of design. Its true purpose was entirely unapparent from what could be described visually, a purpose that was quite crucial for a Storm Fleet to operate at maximal levels of efficiency and strength - the Anchor, seeding itself by means of the arcane powers of the Aether deep within a celestial body, uses the raw chaotic forces of stars to provide the fleet with a capacity of function otherwise unattainable without its grace. It provides for all the strength and staying power the Dominion needs across the whole of the Storm fleet, found in its ability fortify the very technology the Dominion so heavily relies upon - technology intrinsically bound to the Aether - with the refined energies of the Dark Star's own creation, channeling it into their forms and flushing them with life anew.

Yet now, the Anchor move unsettled, its elegant figure streaming across the void towards the Dread Fleet.

As it passed the entirety of the fleet, it sailed unhaltingly towards the war-torn world the fleet had hovered over for far too long. Here, the Anchor would unveil a devastating side effect of its very nature, one which would have immediate consequences, and bring a swift end to the excessively-overblown Iritrian Campaign Westerian had embarked upon weeks ago - a campaign that should have in its totality taken but a few short days from start to finish.

The Anchor slipped over the thunderous terrestrial world, its black form silhouetted against the burning surface, and as it shifted over this fallen planet, projected a series of beams from its northern tip. Tens of thousands of kilometers ahead of it, space seemed to contort on a grand scale, crumpling and folding much in the same way as one sees in the early onset of a Transverse Cascade. This, however, was but a distant cousin to that terrible affair - much to the fortune of the entirety of the Command Fleet, for its great scale.

The darkness of space was quickly wrenched free of its fastenings to reality, its placid form shattering in a singular, sweeping motion which all at once devoured the cosmic view. The vortex was created at once, a welcoming portal that illuminated the Anchor brilliantly with its promising glows, lightning reaching out from the edges of the threshold like fingers, pulling the monolithic constrict into its depths. Whilst the Anchor settled into the great vortex, crossing the barrier between this reality and the next, vast amounts of exotic material and energy were disgorged rapidly into the naked void, congregating around the periphery of the portal at first, before ushering forward in a violent pulse as the Anchor vanished into the portal's depths. The impact of this on the world it had been unleashed upon so would not survive the violent affair that would come next.

Instantly, the glaring energies which poured out from the extracosmic object set the already war-singed planet ablaze, burning off most of the atmospheric gases necessary for higher forms of life and incinerating everything that could burn on the surface as radiation poured down upon it in volumes far exceeding what any life-bearing world could sustain.

Following in fractional moments after this, the thrust of aetherial gases and cosmic winds collided with the planet in a single, great shock, not only stripping the planet of its remaining atmosphere and pulverizing everything left on its surface, but blasting away the ring of ruinous wreckage that drifted around it in orbit, leaving only the barren rock behind. A cloud of debris carrying everything which once had rested upon the surface and all which had been in orbit was drifting away from the great portal in the opposite direction, a glittering nebula of ruin.

The Command Fleet bore the affair far better than the planet did, being well-acquainted with the forces of such events. From the perspective of Etna's avatar, there in the Prince's sanctum, the entire affair was almost forgettable, were it not for the singular moment of absolute and swift devastation brought to the embattled world, leaving it a dead husk with no possibility of harboring any remaining resistance - a satisfying thought. All the same, it was now void of any means of carrying life in the future without considerable effort, but of course, Etna saw that the world before her would have been rendered as ruin either way, glancing back at the ailing star.

With all the unofficial ceremony over with, and the Anchor now departed from all points of view, it was the turn of the Command Fleet AXXOTA to follow, while the portal abided well enough to carry them across. There it rested upon the horizon, its light illuminating as brilliantly as though it were a second star, a beacon for the fleet to rally towards - the glorious gateway to victory, suspended in the void.

And so Command Fleet AXXOTA began upon its transition, the entirety of the great storm fleet shifting its way towards the great Transverse threshold, leaving behind it the crumbling ruins of a solar system that once sat at the twisted heart of a degenerate Xeno race. Now, they moved towards a new frontier - possibly a new war - re-purposed to serve as the seat for the Grand Lord-Admiral to command all affairs from a position of true power.

Of course, the truth of the situation was that this seat had already been taken.

The power was all hers.

[Novaya Equestria]

Novayan Expeditionary Forces
Novayan led Evacuation Group Task Force
Near the FTL interdiction areas/zones
Rastho System

"Admiral, we have some bad news." An Atlas intelligence officer said to Admiral Borealis Norsoutha. "What's the bad news?" Admiral Borealis asked. "Sir, they seem to have established FTLi zones which, for some or no reasons, overlapped with each other. Since we can't pass through, we'll be watching the whole thing going on in Nos'Goth." The Atlas intelligence officer reported. "Ah. I want all ships to assume stationary positions near the largest FTLi zone and contact the ones maintaining those FTLi zones. We'll need passage so that we can evacaute the Gel'Durks." Admiral Borealis ordered. The Novayan Expeditionary Forces and Evacuation Group Task Force ships all stopped near the largest FTLi zone.

Admiral Borealis Norsoutha enters the bridge and activates the telecom/transmission. "This Admiral Borealis Norsoutha of the NCS Atlas to those maintaining the FTLi zones. I'd like to ask all of you to allow us passage so that we can get the Gel'Durks out. We've no interests in fighting all of you and wanted to peacefully evacuate them as much, fast, and soon as possible. We will use force ONLY when we were attacked. There are children and women down there! If you kill all of the Gel'Durks in Nos'Goth, you will be nothing more than monsters. Now I ask you, members of all armed forces and militaries. If you see it in our heart, please allow us passage so that we can evacuate the Gel'Durk children, women, and possibly wounded. If possible, please utilize the resources available to you and help us out." Admiral Borealis said to the Pords, Mayans, and Franks.

"No women or children will be left behind to rot and die in the sun!" Borealis added.

[Royal Frankia]

Descent

Multiple landing zones would be established as the divisions and equipment of the expeditionary force were ferried down below. Frankian patrols in force would expel any xenos living within several leagues of secure zones. There would be no attempt by the Frankian authorities to either join or stop the xenocide; it was not their problem as far as staff officers were concerned.

The officers of the Logistics Corps would look to overseeing the completion of supply depots; tedious work, but necessary. Meanwhile, Royal Engineers proceeded to construct sufficient fortifications. Turrets, razor wire, mines, and obstacles would be strewn around the Frankian camps with considerable care. Army regulation placed considerable emphasis on a secure camp, even if it came at the expense of a zealous pursuit of the foe.

Recon patrols would make for areas where the Pords were believed to have landed, though probes were bring back information that the Pords were no more than a couple hundred leagues from the Frankian positions. Still, if the Pords were as proficient on land as they were in space, they would attempt to conceal their positions. Staff officers were more likely to trust the word of their scouts than the feed of a probe; the latter's projections were usually distorted by a multitude of factors.

Targets would be steadily fed by these patrols into the targeting computers of the Artillery detachments; their guns waiting for the word to unleash hell upon the foe. Some of the old hands seemed concerned that the Pordish artillery might pose as much a threat to the expeditionary force as their land fortresses. The Brass shared the same suspicion, and opted to use the artillery arm of the Frankian host to maximum efficiency.

Though artillery was the queen of the battlefield, it was the men on the ground that decided the outcome of an engagement. The entire Realm would be represented here today on this desolate rock: Neustrians, Austrasians, Septimanians, Ratkorians, Gerwannians, and territorials from at least a dozen colonies. Each would bear the banner of the district that they had been raised; determined to fight and die for the glory of their colors.

Strict training and discipline had made these men into soldiers; duty had sunk into their very bones. Now, they would fight an actual adversary; an adversary, that at one point, had once been a brother. Instead of the usual gifts of brandy or tobacco offered to kin, the Frankians were preparing to give them the cold, hard steel.

Frankian forces would advance in multiple columns against the Pords, knowing that this would entail heavy casualties. It was widely assumed that in modern war, particularly war that saw the use of combined arms, that any assault would likely be a very bloody affair. Some optimistically thought that the artillery might smash the Pords before the initial engagement got underway, but the veterans were aware that the best the guns could do was soften up their forward positions.

92nd Corps had been given the order to advance to the xeno settlement within District 401 alongside the 8th Territorial Corps. Each division had been assigned certain key objectives; if they met native resistance they had been ordered to take by storm. The Light Batteries would be set up several leagues within the rear, while the more mobile quadcannons were tasked to offer direct support for the infantry if they were to require it.

Meanwhile the tanks of the 799th Armored Division were to advance along the right of the infantry divisions, with support offered by the 85th Chimeran Mechanized Corps. Orders had been given for them to race several leagues ahead of the main thrust, and to bypass any opposition that could not directly interfere with their thrust to the north.

Glad Tidings-4th Recon Company
Lieutenant Ignatius Lorell had expected that his company would encounter xeno partisans, even though Frankia had no desire to impose its will upon them. Steps had been taken to secure the routes by which the supply columns would move as the Frankian host advanced, and general sweeps of the area had been conducted. 4th Recon was to disarm any xeno carrying arms, and shoot them down if they were to offer resistance.

Such policing actions were usually left to the UDI, but a clash with the Army had led to the absence of their battalions. It was perhaps better this way, Lorell surmised, as the UDI battalions were notorious for their ruthlessness. He took no note of the manner in which the xenos had been expelled; refugees were common in a warzone, and if several more were added to the stream to secure the Army's depots then so be it.

Lorell paused as he received a communique from one of his squad commanders who was a league and a half away from his position.

Natives sighted, permission to engage?

Lorell would have given permission straightaway if they were putting down a rebellion, but it was perhaps wise to avoid further conflict with the locals.

Denied, inform the xenos that they are to clear the area at once.

A sudden burst of gunfire crackled over the comms, much to Lorell's annoyance.
Squad commander, you do not have permission to open fire. Repeat, you do not have position to open fire.


Pords, bearing 291-321. Request immediate assistance, ASAP.

Lorell bade the rest of the 1st platoon to work their way so as to lay down an overlapping field of fire. Lorell then would bring up the 2nd platoon alongside a few Urlann light tanks; he yelled for them to prime their quadcannons. Running alongside 3rd squad, 2nd Platoon, he expected that most of his Company would not make it out alive.

[Olimpiada]

---

Eridu, Rastho Prime
FWOS Victorem Gaia

---

“What is an… Olimpiadan philosophy?”

The question caught him off guard, and gave him a moment’s pause. He hadn’t touched up on philosophy in ages. Although he had developed his own ideas over time, he had never cared if they aligned with those of the state, since the state saw fit to employ him regardless.

“That’s an interesting question,” responded Nassos, frank as ever. “I suppose the short version the Church approves of is appropriate. Once, we were slaves to those we saw as gods. At the first hint of weakness, after centuries, we slew them in the Bellum Libertatus.” The Bellum Libertatus was a historical oddity that greatly interested Nassos. It was a strange conflict, which saw muskets and laser rifles alike being used in combat, and everything in between, the product of a century of technological repression. He had wrote several essays on the war during his time at the Crimson Naval Academy. Something about the anachronistic essence of it appealed to him, people forced into primitivism clashing with incomprehensibly powerful technologies.

There was another pause. A wisp of steam from Nassos’s largely untouched coffee curled up into the air. It drifted slightly with the movement of the command ring within the Victorem Gaia, slowly rotating on rails to provide a pseudo-gravity of sorts. He continued his explanation.

“Is not the only thing more powerful than a god another god? The only logical conclusion is that the human species is god. All other species are, by extension false claimants to godhood, constitute a threat, and should be slain. Any humans willing to happily coexist with them are traitors.” The implications of this went further, but if he wanted to know those, he would have to ask. He had a fleet to administrate, and he would have rather the discussion ended earlier.

---

Sea of Worlds, Atenai
FWOS Sharp Infinity

---

Twenty seven years was how long Romanous Michaelides believed it had been since he had last seen Ioannes Nassos. At that time, they had both been attending the naval school on Crimson, which to him appeared as a slightly ruddy dot in the distance, several dozen light seconds away. Nassos had always been the better of the two of them, the better of their whole class really. He had excelled in almost every subject, dominating in scores on tests covering everything from unguided ballistics to military history. And Michaelides had always been just behind him, striving for that top spot, and never managing it, much to his chagrin. And with every success, Nassos had just sat there, with that insufferably calm attitude, never showing a hint of frustration or happiness.

Although years had passed, the man’s success still ate at him. And now, Michaelides had to work for him. There was still a slight twitch in his eyebrow every time he thought about it. With any luck, Nassos would mess something up, setting him back to a more appropriate spot. However, Michaelides was aware that any screw up would damn him as well. He sighed, and his first officer took notice.

“Is there something wrong sir?” she asked, looking up from the star charts she was examining. He could feel her eyes boring into his skull, looking at the slight twitch. He made a brief but conscious effort to stop it.


“No, it’s nothing,” he lied, shaking his head. He couldn’t appear weak. He had work to do, and he needed to keep the image of a commander that wasn’t angry and frustrated. “Let’s just finish the preparations on the ship. How’s it looking?”

“Smoke Jaguar is still having its antimatter fuel loaded onto it. Crew will have to board afterward. The Neapolitan is running diagnostics on its spinal gun, and the Pallas is doing the same,” she replied. This earned a sigh from Michaelides. While he was already prepared to be underway, the rest of the fleet was taking its time. He was tempted to leave without them, but restrained himself instead. It wouldn’t do to be unprepared, especially since for all he knew, Nassos’s attitude (or lack thereof) had already gotten them into a fight.

---

Kalaallisut, Eridu

---

“Should we act like we don’t understand them?” asked Constantinos. His idea was certainly valid. The Zergans didn’t seem to possess automatic translators that functioned without an excess of time spent tweaking them for each dialect.

One of the fluorescent lights flickered overhead as Alex spoke. “I doubt that’s wise. They expect us to have translators. Every other soldier down here has been using them.” It was true. They had seen soldiers already bartering off cheap equipment like faceplate RAM chips in exchange for currency and food, their helmets coming off and revealing their faces. A brief moment or two of humanity while they attempted to chat with those whose language they knew nothing of and could not speak without technological aid (excepting those with modification surgery to have translators neurally implanted, of course).

It had been strange to see the lower levels. The dimly lit skyscrapers gave way instead to crowded apartments, hosts to various small businesses and families. In a strange way, it reminded Alex of his home on Clockwork. Though the signs were in a different language, and the people were a different ethnic blend, it was familiar. Ordinary people in a crowded town, trying to make ends meet despite the crushing odds. Behind his mask, he smiled slightly.

Constantinos saw it differently. Although Cobalt was also an urban world, it was one where technology was born. Everything was so much cleaner. Cobalt’s streets and buildings had been designed in such a way as to make maintenance easy and cheap, and it showed. Even the drug dens gleamed in the right light. By comparison, Kalaallisut was downright grimy. Dense steam from open air markets hung in the air, and residual trash just laid around, not being sucked into nearby incinerators like he was used to. He supposed the silver lining was that he couldn’t smell it, though with the way his peers in other squads had been wolfing down food, he wasn’t sure if it was more curse than blessing.

While the two of them had been taking their time trying to decide what to do, Pandora had already used her authority as squad leader to make the move. “Fuck it, I’m not getting into a fight over this. The brass can say what they like, but they’ll just have to be glad I didn’t punch a hole in one of the locals.” She knew that they were easily capable of winning a shootout, after all, the constabulary was only using chemically fired projectiles, but what was the point? There was a ding in her helmet as the translator clicked on to handle her speaking. “Apologies, there must have been an error with our mission coordinates. Internal systems sometimes experience issues in unfamiliar territories. We’ll be on the next tram up.”

[The Dominion of Black Sun]

Dominion Deep-Space Frontier Fleet, DES. IEDUX-9870-0473.IV
E.SD-IC (ESC) system, 750 million kilometers from EU-24321
The 'Aeternium', a Volhynia-Class Frontier Command Vessel

The darkness of the natural void had never seemed more perverse and unkind than it did at present. A grave cruelty seemed to be enacting upon Tullius, an unending punishment for slight transgressions - he sat now in the shadow of the Beacon, abandoned by its grace, or so it did seem. His forward gaze was none other than an absolute darkness, his mind contorted over the bitter taste of failure and dishonor as they fled the valiant scene of battle - he could not find the rationale for why they left now as they were leaving, but his mind served him unerringly; every decision that had gone on prior was his and his alone, as memory recalled..

Even so, the doubt was there. Its presence was strange - how could one doubt their own thoughts? How could a Lord-Admiral? It was troubling him deeply, but he could do nothing more about it other than set his worries aside. Every article of data suggested him true, his own mind did, and he did not have the time to waste on idle contemplation - indeed, there were matters much larger at hand.

The Grand Lord-Admiral was here, confirmed by Tech-fleet commanders and the Aeternium's own registers, a joyous occasion, truly, and one he must celebrate in the presence of his ranking officer. There was much to discuss, regarding matters of the past, present, and future, and seldom any time to talk. As he quite recalled, the Dominion's presence in this affair would become a great deal more expressed upon the arrival of the Dread Fleet AXXOTA - what matters should follow, now as the stars came aglow with war and tumultuous combat, and one Xeno force tore its teeth into the next, were entirely uncertain. Either way, their passage lay ahead.

Tullius willed the Aeternium as a maestro does his orchestra, his every move causing a great series of changes to reverberate throughout his ship and thereby across the entirety of the D.S.F. Fleet. Now that they had left the Xeno enemy in their distant wake, they were free to enter the Traverse, to relocate within the proximity of the Fourth Fleet and the majestic Tallyhawl. Tullius seated himself upon his command throne, gazing ahead as streaks of aetherial lightning grazed the Aeternium's figure before snaring the entire vessel into the Threadway. Dazzling color blossomed every which way, brushing the endless darkness which prevailed across the untamed multiverse out of sight. At last, they were truly under way.

The Lord-Admiral settled into the journey - momentary as it would be - easing his mind of its ruinous thoughts. Here was the pause, the great separator which cleaved his past endeavors from his current. The fragments of skepticism remained true, but he little-dwelled on those thoughts, consciously putting them aside his mind - it was high time to move on.

In his head, he counted out every passing second until their arrival..

One. Two. Three. Four...

---

---

Dominion Deep-Space Frontier Fleet, DES. IEDUX-9870-0201-V
60 million kilometers from EU-28901
The 'Tallyhawl', a Castigator-Class Grand Command Vessel

“Is not the only thing more powerful than a god another god? The only logical conclusion is that the human species is god. All other species are, by extension, false claimants to godhood, constitute a threat, and should be slain. Any humans willing to happily coexist with them are traitors.”

Humanity, divine. It was a flawed ideology, but one with promise - and fascinating none the less.

Iseppien responded with the slightest of smiles, nodding his head in accordance with the final statement. He was pleased to hear what the human had to say, for it gave him but the briefest of reflections of the Dominion's own heart and soul. While their faith was heretical and wrong none the less, Argus knew with every confidence here was a people with an ideological foundation wholly receptive to the Beacon's light - they needed only guidance towards it.

This, of course, was not where the Lord-Admiral would steer the conversation. The subject of faith and gods was one he avoided in every circumstance he could, even among his peers, for he was a man of certain beliefs, many of which were either controversial in the eyes of the Cult, or not of any interest to those who presided outside of the spectrum of Dominic society - not at present, either way.

"Well spoken. There is a fortitude to it which I find refreshing; your kind, as I have seen for far too long, are so unusually prone towards such transient philosophies of... coexistence, of tolerance, living side-by-side with what simply cannot be. In you, I do not see such a sickness of the mind - I see a strength. I admire it; I praise it even, and I should hope there will be a lasting peace between the Dominion and your kind." Argus spoke with a moderate voice of joviality, delicately articulating his expressions towards a concealed sense of cordiality.

As he finished his final line, a servitor approached beside him, "Your Grace, the Lord-Admiral Tullius will be arriving shortly - his fleet has sustained considerable damage from a recent engagement, and he is likely to seek a direct conference with your presence." The automaton spoke.

Argus nodded, dismissing the machine. He turned his attention back to Nassos, "I wish times were not as engaging as they are, but I am glad to have spoken directly. Perhaps, when matters are more settled, we might resume discourse in a more appropriate manner and setting, to better align our two peoples and assure a lasting peace. Until that time does arrive, Admiral Nassos, I should hope your operations fare well and look forward to our continued relations." The Grand Lord-Admiral signaled the momentary end of the conversation, leaving Nassos with duty of the final, parting remark.

[The St Templar Banking Union]

Tor'vrak, New Vulcan
Some Distance from Tor'vrak

Key'Zhao and his band stopped short of the Pord position, eyeing the snowmen through the smog which as descended on their world since the bombardment began. They appeared to have had a clunky translator with them for the words were distorted and slightly robotic in nature. He shrugged and shouted back, "Local militia of Tor'vrak. We want to inspect the ship and crew."

He paused for a second, debating if he should say more, and came to the conclusion that any more information was optional. Regardless, he began once more, "Is the vessel repairable?" The Pords looked like they were about to answer when a sudden burst of automatic fire was issued. Instinctively, he fell to a crouch and raised his rifle to his shoulder. Behind him, he sensed his comrades follow suit and fan out behind him, taking up positions along the ridge they had stopped behind.

Peering over the ridge, Key'Zhao sighted another group of soldiers - neither Gel'Durk nor Pordish - cowering behind another ridgeline in the now desolate hillside. They appear to not have noticed them, but there was no way he could be certain at this distance.

"What's going on, Sier?" Wes'hoth, his second in command, asked in his hoarse whisper, "What do we do?"

"Etos damn me if I know," Key'Zhao replied, craning his neck to try and get a better view of the situation, to no avail. "But we can't all just stay here. Get some men down to that ditch there and await my words." He jerked a stubby finger at the indicated ditch, a shallow furrow where a small creek once flowed. "Don't shoot till I give the signal." Wes'hoth nodded in acknowledgement and waved his band of warriors forward. They nimbly made their way over the ridgeline and slid into position on the banks of the trench.

---

Rastho Prime
New Vulcan

Kyv'Tamara watched on helplessly as the Ellian fleet slipped out of her clutches. Despite knowing that there was nothing she could do, curses and frantic orders were automatically directed to Ger'Angela, who was struggling with the helm, trying to turn the heavy warship around and give pursuit. The urge to push the pilot aside and take over the helm herself was almost overwhelming, and she struggled to restrain herself from pursuing such a course of action. Doing so would only tarnish her rather respectable repute with her crew, which is almost guaranteed to discredit her leadership, and thus undermine her authority and control over them afterwards.

Clutching angrily at the arms of her battle throne to control herself, she gazed resentfully after the Ellian vessels as they fled further. She could almost see the infuriatingly triumphant smile on the face of the Ellian admiral, and the thought was made all the more exasperating as her vessel was rocked violently by a few parting blows. Her eyebrows would have twisted into a furious knot on her forehead long ago had she had any. A series of confused shouts from below, on the second deck of the bridge, made their way up to her and a series of alarms went off. She recognised the dreaded siren immediately. It was a mariner's worst nightmare.

"Hull breach!" the Chief of Engineering, Kyv'Natalie, declared rather unnecessarily. Without being told to do so, she was already frantically ordering the affected regions of the ship to have their blast doors sealed off, her panicked voice cracking as she yelled over the ship's comms. Eventually, after a desperate minute or so, they managed to stem the flow of water gushing outwards into the void and the alarms were quelled into silence.

As the crew regained control of the ship, Kyv'Tamara noticed something peculiar out of the corner of her eye. The Ellian flagship's tail, which had been pouring out smoke since the charge, lit up briefly as is someone had just fanned the flames burning within and in a great spectacle, an entire bank of thrusters seemed to detonate by their own accord, leaving the vessel drifting helplessly in the void.

Her lips peeled back in a savage smile to reveal two rows of small, diamond shaped teeth. "Helm, full head." Deliberately the Morimpan fleet swung around back into their regular wall formation and took their time as they encroached upon the crippled Ellian fleet, now struggling to make headway with their flagship rendered near-immobile.

---

Rastho Prime
Nos'Goth

Wes'roth was not the first to notice the massive rod-like object which fell from the sky some time ago - likely an hour or two before - had completely disappeared. The crater it had created upon its impact and the devastation inflicted by resulting shockwave which flattened down the hills and forests outside the city was still there. Some of the houses in the outer suburbs also suffered a similar fate, as if an earthquake or tsunami of clay had ripped through the town, wrecking buildings and tossing the rubble further inwards into the heart of a city. But the thing which has brought about this destruction had vanished, as if into thin air, and in its place, it left nothing but damp, upturned earth.

"What sorcery is this?" He muttered under his breath. The eerie desolation gave no reply and the uncanny silence set his teeth on edge. It seems as if the decent of the rods scared away all life in the local area and the upturned soil forbade them from ever coming back. Even the air was still and in the complete silence, he could hear his pulse speed up.

There was a scrape of stone on stone as someone made their way towards him. He turned to see Rye'Loth gingerly picking his way through the rock and rubble with limited success, each step sending a shower of small pebbles clattering down the incline.

"Command wants a sitrep," he declared as he drew near, his voice unusually loud and harsh in the silence of the scene. "We've done a sweep of the area. There's not a fish within two hundred taps." Wes'roth nodded but made no reply as they descended the mound of rubble, as if in respect of the destruction that had taken place.

The sitrep was short and quick, there was nothing of real value to report other than confirming the disappearance of the rod-like instrument. The team's radio operator, a shy little man, by the name Nos'voss, with a constant nervous twitch, pestered them the rest of the afternoon about how they should relocate to a different area and that the enemy may have picked up their signal. "They'll be onto us any moment now," he would say, only for the others to reply in disagreement or tell him to shut up; mostly a combination of both.

However, Nos'voss' concerns were genuine and were soon to be realised.

The sun was setting and the air cooled to a sudden chill relatively quickly. The group of six made camp in the ruins of an apartment building close to a wide open area relatively clear of debris, which used to be a park of sorts. Wes'roth decided that he was getting tired of cold food and the place was safe enough to permit a fire, much to Nos'voss' dismay.

It started with a small tremor, just barely noticeable, but it quickly escalated into a deep, omnious rumbling which set one's teeth chattering if they neglected to keep their mouth tightly shut. Once more it was Nos'voss that first noticed that something was wrong. He leapt to his feet and pointed an accusing finger at the ground. "The ground's shaking!" He declared. The others shrugged dismissively.

"They're probably just OBing us again. Sit down," Rye'Loth reasoned, returning to his meal of dried fish and hard bread, "If the shockwaves are this weak, it's probably several hundred gallops away." After about ten seconds, the trembling grew rapidly in intensity and the dismissive expression on Rye'Loth's face dissolved into one of genuine concern. "What? Earthquake? Here? Now? It can't be!"

"Earthquake or not, we need to get out of here!" Yas'thma exclaimed as she came to her feet, "unless you want to be buried alive!" They fled from the building but a distraught cry stopped Wes'roth in his tracks.

"The radio!"

It was Nos'voss. Wes'roth turned back to see the scared little man making his way back into the ruin which had already begun showing signs of caving from the violent shaking. "Just leave it, you fool!" He called after the radio operator, struggling to pull the heavy device onto his shoulders, "Val'laah's sake! Do you have a death wish?" He guessed he knew the answer and ran to assist and little Gel'Durk warrior.

The rotten structure of the apartment, already weakened by weeks of bombing and the impacts of other trauma which made sizable impressions on its surface clearly visible, gave in at last and came down in a heap, pouring dust and smoke into the air in a great gush. Wes'roth, dazed, clambered to his feet wearily, semi-conscious of the fact that the shaking seemed to have subsided. "Bloody Val'laah," he said rubbing his eyes, "What is wrong with you, Nos'voss?"

A sharp cry of agony answered him. He looked down to see Nos'voss by his feet, one of his legs trapped under some great slab of wall or ceiling. "Yas'thma, Rye'Loth, get up here quick!" He quickly knelt down and with the help of his other squadmates, hefted the great slab off Nos'voss. The little man shrieked painfully throughout the entire process before collapsing onto his face, as if exhausted. They inspected the damaged limb and quickly came to the conclusion that it was crushed, beyond repair.

"How bad is it, Sier?" The radio operator croaked finally. Before anyone could answer him, a strange droning made itself aware and the radio came to life, crackling with static. Nos'voss cranked his neck to try and see the large device on his back. "Oh, don't tell me you broke it," he muttered hoarsely, temporarily forgetting about his leg. Fumbling, he tried to shrug the radio off his back. The movement jerked his crushed limb and he howled in agony, before collapsing back onto the ground.

"Just stay still, you fool," Yas'thma demanded, "It'll hurt a lot less if you stop trying to move it." She thought for a second and shrugged. "I won't lie," she admitted, "It's pretty bad. No way we can fix it, it'll have to be amputated." She saw the man crane his neck to try and get a better view of the extent of the damage and pressed his head into the dirt somewhat more forcefully than she intended to. "Just don't look at it." There was a mumbled reply of agreement. She stepped away from Nos'voss and Has'roth, a heavily built Gel'durk that acted as the squad's gunner, scooped up the little Geldurk and flung him over his shoulders, ignoring his protests.

Suddenly, inky swarms of incests burst forth from the earth like rising smoke, so thick as to blot out the sun. The shrill shrieks of a thousand tormented souls permeated the air, surrounding the native warriors with an impregnable wall of approaching darkness. The effect was near instant. Utterly confused and terrified by the hellish sounds and sights, the Gel'Durk fled, completely overwhelmed by fear. They had no clue where they were running to, but only that some inexplicable horror was fast approaching and they needed to put as much distance between themselves and it - whatever it was.

A fist punctured the soil some distance ahead of them and without a second thought, they ducked back into the ruins. Without even glancing back, they knew that the dreadful cloud was just behind them and the nightmarish noise had never stopped. Even now, their howls pierced the air and seemed to be melded into the wind itself, hovering ever so slightly behind them, yet out of reach, originating from all directions at once. The swarm followed them as they weaved through the alleyways and skipped over mounds of rubble, all the while adding to the death crescendo with their own constant cries.

When they finally emerged from the alleyways, forced into the open by a tidal wave of darkness, they were confronted with earthly elementals. Solid bulks of gemstone, worn by a millennium of weathering, cradling bright white skulls in their arms. Their bodies were cluttered with the outlines of ancient runes, still stark and distinctive with their jagged edges and sleek curves as if a thousand years of erosion did them no harm.

The jadestone-clad figures raised the skulls in their hands to their lips and the death tune started once more.

Val'laah is empty and all the dae'mons are here.

[Pordlandia]

Kolnaq's Brigade
VRZ Tall Coniferous, Kornat Hanüch type Battlecruiser

Doesn't look like they're pressing us.

Kolnaq's tactical officer nods; he only just was able to discern what his superior said. The Pord looks to the displays and runs his hand through the holograms. The handful of Tylaq Balnook types near the Frankish formation and already have begun to slow to more sedate paces. No overly aggressive movements are done by them yet, but now - with much less fabric between them and their enemy - they forego complete obscurity for heightened detection; a flurry of high-power scans are let out from the ships in massive cones from their bows. Simple in purpose, their only goal is to reveal concealed traps or vessels that might be in the local area. They are not nearly enough in number to cover every avenue of approach, but the area directly ahead of Kolnaq's line-of-advance is well within the area-of-effect of their scanning. For the Franks it would not be difficult to detect these scans (and perhaps even triangulate the location of the vessels unleashing them), but it is a gamble Kolnaq is willing to take. The tactical officer moves his hand down from the holograms as he sees the Tylaq Balnooks scanning in earnest.

We should begin moving deeper into the system, the tactical officer advises.

Kolnaq waves his hand in agreement: Let's begin, then. He drafts a lane of general advance for his warships and sends the orders down to his subordinates; in the void the myriad bows of the big-gun ships begin to turn towards the Frankish host and start to make much swifter steam for them. They are still a pace or two behind the Tylaq Balnooks, but Kolnaq is intent on beginning the greater engagement. The other brigades should be arrived soon enough and far better for him to seize the initiative now than wait for the Franks to attack and gain it themselves.

We have an incoming transmission, the communications officer interjects. He brings the transmission up onto the displays.

nam-Kolnaq Zhälnar, Kalanok begins. He bows to his fellow Pord with a wince.

nam-Kalanok, Kolnaq replies. How are you holding? Franks have you in a bind, it looks, Kolnaq says. Can you extend?

Kalanok sighs. We are. We have new signatures, though. We're surrounded.

Jlokhemitspeed, Kolnaq says. We did notice the development.

Kalanok motions to his tactical officer. The Pord moves to send a packet of data to Kolnaq:

POST-OPERATIONAL DEBRIEF & COMBAT ANALYSIS
Chief Tactical Officer, VRZ River Fortunate

OVERVIEW
Following the bombardment of New Vulcan and the arrival of Mürympskayan and Mürympskayan-aligned forces to the Rastho Prime System, VRZ assets, under DritteJloknam Plonyzh Kalanok, were sent to intervene to restore order to the system and re-secure the lanes of commerce.

OBJECTIVES
- End stranglehold Mürympskayan and Mürympskayan-aligned forces have on GESO and GESO-aligned trade in region
- Secure system from further assault and if possible restore local government(s) to further this end
- Expand engagement sector(s) to include nearby systems to prevent further destabilizing assaults in region if practical

STRATEGY
Judging by the volume of Mürympskyan and Mürympskyan-aligned forces prior to battle, it was not deemed necessary to allocate significant assets. Based on projections two battlecrusiers and their supporting elements should have been more than capable of entering Rastho Prime and engaging the fleets present. Battleplan was simply to utilize superiour tonnage and broadside weight to force a rather rapid closure to the naval engagement, effectively shooing the hostile parties away from the system.

OUTCOME
Significant Mürympskyan forces have been driven from the local planet-system of New Vulcan. However: there are still forces that remain in the region. Mürympskyan fleet did not directly engage VRZ. Forces under the banner of the Dominion of Black Sun provided the bulk of combat against the VRZ. Evidence indicates Dominion fleet was not fully capable of matching VRZ in set-piece artillery duel. Arrival of Frankish assets prevented natural conclusion of battle. Attempts to escape Frankish encirclement led to heavy losses during charge through Dominion line.

POST-OPERATIONAL
Neither Dominion nor VRZ remain on field. Remaining warships under Kalanok are withdrawing from Frankish armada. To fully secure orbitals of New Vulcan more vessels will need to be brought in.

ASSESSMENT
Mission terminated prematurely due to unforeseen circumstances. Engagement appears to have been tactically inconclusive as neither force remains on field to claim undisputed victory. However: with the Dominion withdrawing from the local planet-system, the purpose of engaging there specifically, at least in part, has been carried out to full effect.

FORCES COMMITTED
VRZ: 195 - 210 fabric-rated vessels including Glacierrend and River Fortunate
Dominion: 90 -110 fabric-rated vessels

CASUALTIES
VRZ: 45 - 60 fabric-rated vessels including Glacierrend
Dominion: 15 - 35 fabric-rated vessels

This is the overview my tactical officer prepared, he says. We're going to attempt to withdraw out of the system. Our ships are still littering the area.

Kolnaq nods slowly. We may be able to retrieve some of your disabled vessels, he assures Kalanok, but not right away. We still need the full division to gather before we can fight all the way over to New Vulcan.

Another hologram fades into view on Kolnaq's bridge; the familiar visage of Pataaq comes into focus. nam-Kolnaq; nam-Kalanok, he bows, Excuse my intrusion.

nam-Pataaq, Kolnaq replies. A welcomed intrusion. You've news?

Pataaq can only nod. The death of Glacierrend was horrendously noisy on the higher-order sensors. Members of the rift cruiser's crew are still pouring over the data and information gleaned from the big-gun ship's untimely demise. It was, after all, the most damaging thing that has happened to a Pordish warship by a local power in a very long time. It is worth the examination. And perhaps for this reason more than any other it is studied. For if it had been the Ingenious or the Serdari or the Connori it very likely would not even have been spared a second glance.

Pataaq shifts in his chair. We're keeping an eye on the Frankish signatures, the cruiser captain says, but their fleet is rather considerable. It'd be much easier to screen and keep an eye on things with more vessels, he states rather bluntly; he shifts back down into his chair and leans forward ever so slightly: this fight has ballooned. I will be sending in a request for reinforcements here shortly. Hopefully we can see a Patrol Fleet or two vectored to our location.

That will be greatly appreciated, nam-Pataaq. I will relay the development up to Hyth, Kolnaq confirms. He waves to his communications officer who busies himself with relaying the pertinent information.

There's nothing more to note right now, Pataaq assures, however we will send you our analyzed report on the Frankish maneuvering and formation patterns. From what we can tell, their coordination is far greater than what we have observed in the past. Perhaps the - he thinks on the suggestion for fleeting instant; no, it probably isn't - Nevermind, Pataaq concludes. He takes a long drink from his jug and, fully finishing the drink, he sets it back down and it clanks noisily onto the console. If you'll excuse me.

Those cruisers will be very useful, Kolnaq muses. Like many in the VRZ he resents the organizational change that shifted rift cruisers out of line formations. He frowns at the thought. No doubt an arrangement that makes it easier for the patrol commanders to keep track of their sectors, but it makes his job that much more difficult. The Frankish weight in lesser-ton fabriccraft only heightens this reality. For now, DritteJloknam, focus on pulling out of that encirclement. No reason to lose ships needlessly.

Kalanok salutes. We're making steam for the Franks that dropped out of FTL along our path. With luck we can roll through their lines too.

Kolnaq smiles: A bold claim.

You find me a path through their interdiction and I will gladly take it, Kalanok chuckles.

I will see what I can do.

Kalanok can see Kolnaq looking over to another Pord on his bridge. He says something that doesn't transmit across through the communications link before turning his attention back to Kalanok.

The tactical officer of Tall Coniferous chimes in; this analysis of your previous engagement is rather... He trails off looking for the right word.

Our casualties have been rather heavy, interrupts Kalanok. There's no denying this. However, the Franks shouldn't give us as much a hassle as the Black Sun forces did.

The more forces you draw away from their main contingent, the better, Kolnaq's tactical officer suggests. We're moving now and we're decently confident we can break through them with our battlewagons provided Pataaq's formation analysis doesn't reveal anything too starkly different about them.

Kolnaq nods. Nanook's Brigade's almost in-system. They're to provide cover to our rear and longer-range support up until Mürzhyn's Brigade arrives. We've splendid fabric here.

Appreciate it, Kalanok replies.

Kolnaq returns Kalanok's salute. The subordinate Pord severs the communications link and his hologram fades from Kolnaq's bridge. The Pords about it remain silent until the communications officer breaks the thick din of quietude:

Message from Ellian forces, nam-Zhälnar.

On-screen, Kolnaq orders.

Code: Select all

To: Brigadier nam-Kolnaq
Encryption: Private


Greetings, nam-Kolnaq Zhälnar.

This is Rear Admiral Ingram, leading the Ellian reinforcements inbound for Rastho Prime. We are politely requesting that you lower your local interdiction fields and allow us free passage into the system's inner worlds. If you would be so kind as to arrange for our arrival in the next 12 minutes, that would be much appreciated.

Please do not attempt to contact us until our arrival in-system, we would be unable to receive messages whilst in transit.

Regards,
Rear Admiral Ingram, Ellian Starforce

The tactical officer raises an eyebrow. nam-Kolnaq, if I may, I'm going to have to advise strongly against allowing them through the interdiction. We don't know how many more Frankish warships are waiting at interdiction edge.

Any extra Frankish forces arriving through our interdiction on the heels of the Ellian forces will be far nearer Kalanok than my brigade, Kolnaq notes. It's his interdiction they'll need access through, not our own.

The tactical officer nods. I doubt he'll agree to that.

Probably not, but forward the request to him regardless. If he does accept and more Franks do arrive they can be dealt with as well. They won't be able to pose that much of an immediate threat to us from across the system.

Another message, nam-Kolnaq, the sensors operator says. The timing is not lost on Kolnaq.

Patch it through, the brigadier orders.

Code: Select all

"This Admiral Borealis Norsoutha of the NCS Atlas to those maintaining the FTLi zones. I'd like to ask all of you to allow us passage so that we can get the Gel'Durks out. We've no interests in fighting all of you and wanted to peacefully evacuate them as much, fast, and soon as possible. We will use force ONLY when we were attacked. There are children and women down there! If you kill all of the Gel'Durks in Nos'Goth, you will be nothing more than monsters. Now I ask you, members of all armed forces and militaries. If you see it in our heart, please allow us passage so that we can evacuate the Gel'Durk children, women, and possibly wounded. If possible, please utilize the resources available to you and help us out."

And indeed the timing is quite impeccable. Kolnaq turns from the displays, thought etched upon his brows, before finally making a statement on the matter:

Forward the requests to Kalanok, he orders again.

A short tasinehdao! is heard from the communications officer as he accepts the orders and goes about his business forwarding the request to River Fortunate.

The tactical officer waits until the affirmations have ended before speaking; and if the Franks commit two or even three times as many vessels as they have here now? The question comes quickly and is heavy with concern.

Kolnaq shrugs. Unless the Franks commit heavy big-gun ships it should matter little; he's already reviewed the currently visible roster of warships sailing under the green flag. The ones which match his heavy hitters in tonnage are not numerous. With all the brigades gathered... The fight threatens to be very bloody and very decisive.

Pataaq's observations are very similar to our own, the tactical officer continues. Look at these maneuvers. They've clearly overhauled their training.

nam-Zhälnar, Nanook's Brigade is arriving, the sensors operator notes.

Kolnaq turns his attention to the displays. The telltale signatures of rift-exits sprawl across the void a track or two behind Kolnaq and his forces. The number of big-gun ships is nearly identical to that of Kolnaq; Nanook commands around eighty big-gun ships as well - the main visible differences are the complements accompanying these battlewagons (the impressive arrays of supporting ships) and the vast holographic standards that flutter off their bows and from masts: they are of the Brigade Nanook, not of Kolnaq.

Good. Have the ships ready for missile combat, Kolnaq orders.

A few tasinehdaos! ring out across the bridge. As the ships drift closer to the Frankish contingent, they begin picking out targets. The range is still extreme (more than that, even), but far be it from the Pords to forego preparation.

Incoming transmission from Zhälnar nam-Karüchen Nanook, nam-Kolnaq, the communications officer chimes in.

Display it, Kolnaq orders.

Code: Select all

Ready by the winds, Kolnaq! We are in position and ready to assist as per Hyth's orders.

- Nanook

Kolnaq nods. Message them back: "With the winds then!"

Tasi - a reply is reply is heard - tasinehdao, it is echoed.


Captain of the Old Breed
Nalydian Empire; Grazhni Yamsai

Of course you do, Keegan says. He folds his hands together; his chin rests lightly on his interwoven fingers.

Across him Reid grins warmly. Naturally, the crimson-caped Feldmarschall replies. But I do think we're best off landing on one of the inner planets first, he says.

Keegan moves a marker on the holo-table: beneath the hologram for a rocky world, a blue flag flickers to green. Damn.

Reid can only shrug.

I'm going to need more men, Keegan complains. The Frankish intrusion has changed the situation considerably. He has been skeptical that the Franks really are fighting against von Begin's ships, but the reports filtering back... It would be foolhardy of him to not keep up with the happenings in the theatre - especially the major ones, considering he is only but a handful of hours from being engaged in the system himself - thus naturally, the truth cannot be so easily avoided or casually ignored. He frowns at the thought as he peers towards the now green marker on the holo-table; war games can only model so much, and there isn't a grand plethora of information on the Frankish contingent, either, and Reid (for all his familiarity with the turncoats and their fighting styles) is not a Frank. At heart he shares many of their proclivities (particularly towards shügtstazh - a war of movement - and heavy artillery) but his combat style was forged in the tumultuous era of the Second Nalydian Empire. By the time he came across the Franks, during the Caedis Wars, he had already proven himself as a hardened veteran commander.

And Keegan too is similar to Reid in this regard. Perhaps the last of the "Old Breed" of Nalydian officers (those who know what real ground warfare entails), together they fought off the legions of lesser powers Pordkind found herself at odds with during the turbulent years of the Second Empire. Orbital warfare had largely taken hiatus during this era (and hadn't really been seen in any great capacity since the waning days of the First Nalydian Empire and the brutal Wars against Cigon - a time before even the spiked-helmeted Feldmarschall and his red-haired gray-clad comrade) in favour of mass ground combat. An absence of interdiction and desire to prevent the levels of devestation orbital bombardment engenders fostered the expansion of ground armies. Reid's own reputation, and that of Keegan as well, was far greater than that of Murdoch or Cholkük or Heinz because of this. The navy only rose to prominence once more with the arrival of the Sith Lord Caedis and the razing of much of the nation.

Murdoch was able to create this fame, his own legendary reputation, through the Grand Counteroffensive - a bold counterstrike that brought about the closure of the First Caedis War - despite the fact Keegan and Reid and many others of the Old Breed had already been heavily committed to bringing the Caedians a vicious fight on the ground by this point in the conflict... And although is was Murdoch who reclaimed Nalydya's orbitals, it was Keegan, and the Pords under and alongside him, who truly won the First Caedis War. They bore the brunt of the fighting and allowed for the conditions that springboarded Murdoch to his glorious fabric victory. And Murdoch knew he had been dealt an opportunity - one so rare that another like it has not come since. The Nalydian navy, known previously for its size and not quality, could be re-built from the ground up under this new image - a condition of magnificence and superiority over ground forces and those chained planetside, a change that largely mirrored what Keegan and Reid had made the army: a professional organization forged out of a new tradition, one crafted in the fires of the Caedis Wars.

But perhaps most interestingly is that Reid, and Keegan alongside him, was the dominant progenitor of the traditions what is now the Old Breed have become known for. The Natynozh High Hunters were loathe to object to the cagey commander's molding because Reid - like many of the more well-known Old Breed commanders who knew and fought with him such as Blake, Hans Begin, and Schrolat Tunods - emerged as the first in a generation of Pordish commanders who proved themselves competent beyond the simple marshaling and slinging of numerically vast forces. The forces of Cigon would not recognize the army of Reid, and in all likelihood would find the reforms he enacted served to birth an army with capabilities above and beyond their own station.

The caped Feldmarschall turns his head towards Keegan.

I might speak with Peterson about this, Reid says. He moves another marker on the map; this is a mess.

No doubt it is, Keegan, the Feldmarschall replies, and Peterson won't be happy about it either. Reid looks back to the holo-table. There is no version of the current known and projected deployments which allow Keegan to sweep aside the Frankish ground forces. Hyth's Division and the orbitals are one thing, but if Reid's time on the ground has taught him anything, it is that barring reducing a world to slag, warships in orbit do not always equate to armies swept from the field... Especially an army as modern as the Franks who no doubt have invested heavily in area shielding and point defense. It would, after all, be bizarre for them to backpeddle; such defenses have been the norm for thousands of years. He sweeps his hand over the table: Let's reset and run through the scenario again, Reid says.

The red-haired Feldmarschall agrees. Again, he says.

Reid resets the holo-table: the myriad planets revert to their pre-Frankish arrival allegiances; he scratches his chin thoughtfully - begin, he says; the simulation is initiated.

The crimson-caped Feldmarschall moves first. The opening phases are unpreventable: Glacierrend dies and Arctic Willow crashes on the nearby rocky world. But from here things change. Reid notes the position of Keegan's warships. The holo-table's own combat AI covers the projected fleet engagement, allowing Reid and Keegan to focus on the ground combat. Reid's first move is perhaps expected; seventy thousand Frankish troops with heavy equipment touch down on the rocky world to seize Arctic Willow. Keegan, not in direct command of those forces, can only watch as Reid picks them apart. The planet falls and he eyes his next target, a nearby molten world with terrible conditions. He places a few legions of superheavy guns on the surface and leaves a contingent of troops to protect them. Keegan is unable to counter for a few projected hours. This move, like the past few times they have run the simulation, differs from his previous movements.

There is a knocking on the door. Two gray clad infantrymen glance towards Reid; the Feldmarschall nods in return and they adopt a more relaxed posture. They move to open the door: High Hunter Tylaq Balnook and her aid, Rytek, are revealed.

I hope Korzha Hyth grinds these damned Franks into the dust, she starts from the door. The room suddenly seems chillier - if only just.

Keegan looks up from the holo-maps. I do have my reservations about the man, he notes. Without another word he pauses, almost as if waiting for the others to inquire. About a minute or two pass before he raises a slight brow: Reid, I know you of all people should know why.

Reid nods slowly. Sure I do, he agrees. Hyth commands warships and not sprawling front lines, Reid jests.

The red-haired Feldmarschall lets an almost imperceptible grin creep across his face. The last time Keegan dealt with VRZ types was during Operation Vonshenkor. There Admiral Heinz covered his invasion forces with some ninety thousand warships of varying size. Regardless, his armies were forced back under threat of orbital annihilation. Something about UPEO demands (well, the UPEO and a number of other Laptev and JSOC powers... Fighting against half a dozen fleets from just as many nations, by himself, hardly strikes Keegan's fancy) and the destruction of the entire Cyhelene army compelled him to retire from the shores of the Kiran citadel.

He doesn't have time to think, Keegan, Reid drones on. A man of action...

Keegan rolls his eyes at the additional, unneeded, commentary.

Nearing the table, Tylaq bows: Feldmarschall Reid, Feldmarschall Keegan.

The bows are returned.

She continues: Feldmarschall Keegan, can you rush the preparations here? I'd like to leave within an hour.

There are multiple corps here, Keegan says, that's quite a bit of rushing you're asking for. Reid and I have been talking, as well. One of us might see Peterson about this mess. We need more men if we're going to fight the Franks on the ground in this system.

My Yamsai'an infantry should be more than enough, Tylaq replies. The only issue is the terrible ground.

Rytek considers the comment. It would be far better to have swelling ranks than empty ones - particularly when combating the Franks. Fortunately not all of the ground, though, is terrible - at least as far as Rytek has found. He reaches into his robes and places a projector onto the table; a hologram of his chosen landing zone creeps forth for the gathered to see.

Herr Feldmarschall, this is our current landing zone, Rytek says. The Yamsai'an Guard are ready to set course for the system promptly. This planet appears to be the only world in this system that isn't problematic.

Keegan looks to the holo-map again. It is... Perhaps exaggeration on Rytek's part, he notes. Some of the other worlds - a dry desert planet, another world of temperate climes with reasonably advanced inhabitants, and a handful of scorching hot rockballs - could also serve well as convenient bivouacs for them. And they'd be closer to the fighting. No, something else must be afoot here.

These Hunters always have other considerations... High Hunter Balnook? Your troops have finished preparations? Keegan.

Reid grins warmly. I will speak with Peterson, he says, somewhat diverting the topic. We won't need too many corps on top of what you've shown me, Keegan. I'm thinking perhaps just the 5th and 6th.

5th and 6th Korps? Or... You don't mean..? Keegan turns to Reid: the crimson-caped conqueror of Caedis can only bathe in the absurdity of the suggestion.

They'll form the core of what I'll bring, Reid reassures his fellow Feldmarschall.

You're planning on bringing troops as well? Tylaq's attention is turned to Reid. At her sides a pair of swords rattle with the subtle movement.

Natürlich, Reid replies - his accent thick and intent palpable.

Most of these worlds hold little value. There isn't much reason to commit very many high quality troops here, Keegan observes. Just enough to beat the Franks. Peterson should be more than willing to part with a few corps worth of Kenzhelengrazhni Guard.

Not that Peterson would deny such a request. Reid created the Kenzhelengrazhni Guard to act as bulwark against the encroaching power of the Zhyssian Hunters and the surly Kornat Hanüch. They are effectively his; he commands them in all but title.

From the looks of it we will need five or six extra corps. Considering what we've gathered here, Keegan, I think we should make planetfall on this rock here - he points to a world drenched in molten lava but a stone's throw distant from the central star - and use the terrible conditions to mask the extent of our forces.

That seems to be the best course of action, Keegan agrees. High Hunter Balnook? Do you plan on still establishing a foothold in the outer system?

Rytek grabs the holo-projector and places it back into his robes. Tylaq nods to him. Yes, she says. How do you plan on landing on the inner planets without fighting through the Frankish armada?

Reid waves his hand over the holo-map of the system. The positions of the various fleets seem to reset and then once more engage one another. It shows a general projected course of events and as it plays Reid takes the opportunity to speak: We'll fight through them if we need to, he says. Hyth still has a number of brigades uncommitted? We shouldn't need more than a battalion or two of his ships to escort our transports.

Alright, Tylaq replies, still somewhat unconvinced. Off to her side Rytek jots down a few notes.

You will be speaking with Peterson, Reid? I will see about contacting Hyth in the meantime, Keegan says. It shouldn't take too terribly long to muster the additional forces and move them to the system. I don't imagine Korzha will object to maintaining a larger force of reserves.

If I may, Herr Feldmarschall, nam-Hyth GrazhniJloknam doesn't often maintain reserves, Rytek interjects.

Keegan shrugs. He will if I tell him to.


Where the Clamor Rose Highest
New Vulcan

About a dozen clicks yonder, Narlok's second in command, a burly Zhyssian with a limp to his step, says.

Looks like at least three corps of them. More than that, actually, Narlok agrees, moving up from the south.

We'll need to interdict them, Arctic Willow's captain - Borchük - is quick to point out.

The three Pords eye the tactical display. The sensors of the relay ship afford them a wealth of information - even in its current state. They are able to make out the main prongs of the Frankish assault and have already begun relaying this information to the officers in the field.

I want battery fire on their columns, Narlok continues. We have all this artillery but not a single round raining down on them.

His second in command nods. You didn't manage to get those batteries off of our ship, though, did you?

No, Narlok moves his hand over the map, but for now we'll use our armour until we can get around this artillery issue.

His second in command glares at the map and the areas over which Narlok moved his hand. The armour he indicated is rather sparse. The battalion commanders are mostly in position. Do we really want to defend here? We could move into these towns here, here, and here - he points to their positions - and make the Franks fight us street by street.

Tugs're working to dig the ship out. If we can hold, they may be able to drag us back into orbit, Borchük says. For now, our batteries can help keep the Franks off your men.

The captain speaks into his communicator and adjusts a few things on a very small display. A moment or two later, the vessel shudders slightly. A thunderous roar overtakes the conversation as the loud report of heavy artillery begins. In the void these pieces would be used for point defense, but here on solid ground they are more than enough to serve as arbiters of Pordic judgment. They hammer away in their standard four round sequences, easily revealing the position of the downed ship (not that it was all that difficult to find beforehand - crashing from orbit and gouging out canyons never really lend themselves well to the maintenance of obscurity) as they deluge the advanced Frankish columns with hatred. The shells are big, heavy, and fast.

...If limited in number.

No, I don't want to fight the Franks in any of these towns. There's no reason to do so, Narlok retorts, bringing the topic back to the ground-fighting. He casts a rather sharp glance over to his second in command. The subordinate Pord withholds acknowledgment.

Borchük moves on; your tanks will join our batteries, then?

Yes.

The two Pords find themselves staring at the same point on the map, a small town named Tor'vrak. It would seem the Franks are already upon it and that battle will soon be joined there in earnest. Just how defending there will benefit Arctic Willow is beyond both Narlok (though his second in command doesn't seem to mind the development), but it is too late now. He frowns thoughtfully; have them move back and away from this town, he says. Pull them back to the main defensive perimeter.

The second in command nods slowly. Tasinehdao, he salutes...

...Much nearer the front the Frankish arrival has not gone unnoticed by the Paramarines. A small crackle of gunfire turns their ears towards the heathen traitors and gives their relative routes of advance away to the already cautious Pordic contingent. Three Paramarines duck behind the hull of a tank - diving for cover - before they find a nice spot to dig in.

North of both the road and the Frankish advance, the squad's support weapon, a hulking automachine cannon carried by a Pord whose hair is arguably far too long, is placed on a small stand and swiveled across the horizon. The Pords key in through their linked sensor arrays and are able to make note of the Frankish positions. They don't seem to be quite in range yet for these Pords further back, but the same may not be the case for those further south along and on the road. The infantry in the area number no more than three or four dozen - the two squads that had been sent to meet the locals (who are now along the road) and two squads in reserve to the north of them.

The loud report of tank-fire crackles through the dingy, dirt-laden air. Frankish armour recognized as Urlann type light tanks have strayed well within range of the platoon of Paramarine tanks deployed with the infantry and are met with a hail of fire; their barrels train skyward - the enemy is still a handful of kilometers distant - perfect for plunging fire.

And above them, the Chlümüchgrazhni gunships (responsible for bringing these Pords here) circle the landing zone - four in number - for perhaps a minute or two before they distance themselves from the fight.

Franks moving up in column, a pilot's voice crackles through a communicator. A few kilometers south of our position; vectoring to engaging, she continues.

Tasinehdao, her wingman replies; tasinehdao, the two other Pords in the flight agree.

They pull high into the air to gain their bearings on the layout of forces. The Pord guns her throttle and the engines of the craft roar with power as she forces the flight yoke over and begins swooping back in towards the incoming Franks... Her targets - lighter skinned vehicles and unprotected infantry.

Three other gunships scream in behind her with deafening roars, their own underslung cannons eager for the fray and their beam arrays pregnant with thirst for the battle. The turquoise tridents along their flanks can easily be made out in the distance, and careful observer might even glean from peering into their cockpits but a glimpse of the white-wolf faced Melysh tied around their heads.

The four craft zoom towards the Franks: their sensors make good note of the current position of Chükor and his men:

Code: Select all

"Local militia of Tor'vrak. We want to inspect the ship and crew."

The unfamiliar voice washes over Chükor; the sounds, translated into Pordish, still retain subtle hints of their origin. He smiles slightly and gives a glance to the others with him.

Code: Select all

"Is the vessel repairable?"

The native continues. Chükor stymies the urge to simply reply with no and move from there; the reality is that the situation is far more complicated than that. Though not entirely briefed on the status of the ship, the fact it hasn't collapsed into itself seems to indicate that at some point she will be able to take to the seven yet again. The only real issue is that the...

Franks, a Pordish voice croacks across Chükor's communications device. A sudden eruption of gunfire more than confirms the warning.

Get off the road! Chükor yells. He waves to his fellow crewmembers of Arctic Willow who begin moving off the dusty path and to a clump of rocks somewhat overlooking the area. He can see the native militiamen moving as well - they appear to be heading to what looks to be a shallow ditch.

To the south! Infantry moving up! The dust and winds conceal them visually but not enough to completely hide them from detection. Not compared to the heights of the blizzards upon Grazhni Yamsai.

Chükor sprints for the north side of the road with the rest of his men following his lead. They open up their spacing a bit more but overall still array themselves around the colours of the VRZ and Pordlandia.

We've got orders to pull back to our main defensive perimeter, he calls out. Gunships should be circling back to pick us up but we're going to need to hold here until they can.

The Pord to his left fixes his bayonet. All across the line Pords can be seen affixing their bayonets to their rifles; some - particularly the Arctic Willow's crewmembers, seem to take just a spell longer to fully secure them than the others. Chükor, with his already assembled, says nothing.

The sight though nonetheless is a familiar one - blue clad infantry deployed with their rifles and their blades, ready for an inevitable onslaught. He inhales again deeply and levels his GAR. The rifle responds smartly and, with a quick pull of its trigger, he fires the first shot of the Pordish line downrange towards the Franks; the others with him open up just after he does, and soon the unmistakable chunka! chunka! chunka! of Pordish battle rifles and infantry automachine cannons overtakes the din of what once was peaceable relative silence.

The Paramarines stand undeterred by the Frankish assault. One crouches just behind the road before a clearing and finds a good rock to rest his weapon on; the massive canister autorifle appears to almost enjoy the placement. The Pord secures the short tripod on the crag and tugs on the gun to double-check the placement is secure. Then, he fires: myriad barrels begin to whir and whine and screech, only to quickly be overtaken by an even greater noise - the droning of multitudinous cascades of rounds firing off in very rapid succession...

...Have you managed to make contact with command yet? Narlok questions Borchük. Not an unreasonable query, all things considered.

Borchük turns his gaze away from the displays and indicators of maneuvering Pordish infantry. We're working on it, he says. Franks are jamming quite a few of our channels and the crash has seriously hampered our ability to power through them, he says. Kalanok should know we're down here, but we just might need to send a message out through one of our tugs.

Narlok scoffs at the suggestion. What..?

The Zhyssian second-in-command manages a shrug. I don't think that ship will get through if you send it, nam-Borchük, he says.

Probably not, no, Borchük agrees. Maybe I won't send it, then, he says. Narlok, how long do you think you can hold out?

That depends, Narlok starts. How do you feel about luring the Franks onto this ship?

Borchük shifts in his chair. The thought is not appealing. It'll take longer to get this vessel up and running again if you bring the Franks on-board, he tells the Paramarine.

The alternative is that they reduce this ship to a smoldering pile from orbit if they can't get past our heavy batteries, Narlok says. He looks from Borchük to the Zhyssian and then back to the captain. Smoldering dust.

I like this idea, the Zhyssian adds. We'll fight them every inch - every meter - and make them bleed, he says, his gaze still heavily fixed on the holographic displays. I might personally take out a reconnaissance party to see the formations they're bringing out against us. We'll need to know.

Don't go personally. We'll set up a few teams to deal with that, Narlok replies. He turns to Borchük: We can hold as long as we have men, he explains, finally answering the captain's initial question.

Borchük, however, does not appreciate the vagueisms. You might actually benefit from fighting in some of these surrounding towns, he says. That'll hold the Franks up and keep them from zooming to our ship too quickly.

Again the Zhyssian nods. So then we fight them in both locations - here on the ship and in these towns, he says.

Narlok sits back in his chair. If he fights the Franks in the towns and on the ship by the time they make it off this Jlokhemitforsaken rock he will have no men left. But on the other hand, it also seems to be the only way to effectively stall the Franks for as long as he'll need to in order to allow the repair parties and rescue forces time to do their jobs. He slowly gazes back towards the holographic displays; the fighting has begun between advanced Pordish forces and limited contingents of Franks. There isn't much to be gleaned from the current status of the battle. He leans foward ever so slightly towards his second in command: Which towns have you been thinking about defending from?

This town 'ere, the Zhyssian says, I think is in a good spot. These three as well might prove to be useful. He circles their positions on the holographic displays.

Alright. So we will fight from these towns - Narlok points to the map - and withdraw back to the vessel. From there we will fight on the relay ship. nam-Borchük, I've been organizing ship-board elements here for ground combat, but I've not yet begun preparing for internal vessel-bound fighting. I'm not convinced the forces are ready and able to fight here.

Borchük nods. Unlike some other vessels, the infantry fighting proficiency of those crewing relay ships (well, support and tactical vessels in general) is not the greatest. His nods morphs into a frown as he considers the eventual reality even more. We can manage, Borchük says. I - his communicator steals his attention. He looks down to the device and listens to what the Pord on the other end has to say. If you'll excuse me, gentleman, he says. I am needed on the bridge.

We should get to it, then, Narlok tells his second in command. You can ready the divisional Chrühov for scouting operations. See if they can ride around the Frankish positions and report back.

Tasinehdao! the Zhyssian salutes and walks out of the chamber.

[Royal Frankia]

Cosmos


The Frankians took note of that they were now spread across multiple leagues with the Pords at one end, the Maya on the other, and a smattering of GESO forces in between. Gods be good if the entire 12th did not face complete annihilation, but as the Contingent Commanders relayed with the EF it soon became clear that they would have to concentrate their strength somewhere. The Maya were viewed to be less of a risk than the Pords. The Maya were brave warriors, aye, but brave warriors do not usually make good sailors.



Mayan main force are still some ways off... Pords are scanning our positions; it shan't be long before they strike the 1st contingent.


Scythe traced a series of lines along the holodisplay; positioning units for what had come to his mind. The Maya would come on, there was no doubt about that, but the Pords would have to smash through the 1st Contingent under the Exalted Fleetlord to reach Scythe's contingents. That would not be an easy prospect; if he knew his old master the Pords would be in for quite a dance.

Status report?


Lone Mayan vessel is still engaging our detachments.

Then it's time for us to bring more guns to bear; light them up.

What of the Pords?


A couple squadrons with support ought to suffice, but they must not break through to assist their brethren against the 1st....

As the Maya came on the great number of Frankian warships would maneuver into loose formation; their bows piercing through the eternal void. Banners would flutter from every ship; banners from the great Core Systems to far-flung territories.

The fire directed against the Mayan craft at this stage would only increase; shell and shot would usher forth in a seemingly endless torrent. The Captains bade their men not to slacken now, though they monitored their levels of fatigue. On the DKS Jolann Captain Phillips saw as many shells fed into the battery now as he had seen in his five years of service. Feuer. Feuer. Feuer.

More shells were brought forward; again and again and again the guns roared. Feuer! Reload! Clang! Reload! Feuer! Clang!

The boarding craft loaded with Chimera, viewing a boarding to be unnecessary, opted to fall back behind the lead formations. There was not a word said in dismay; the Maya were coming on in great numbers. The time for the Chimera to prove themselves would come; it would come.

1st Contingent-

DKS Pangloss
The Exalted Fleetlord paced across the deck, his mind a whirljig. Scythe was some still distance off, which likely meant that the Pords would likely advance at any moment. He had relayed the intercepted scans to Scythe, and his belief that the Pords were still trying to figure out a path of least resistance.

Gods be kind if they do, for even that path will be fraught with death.

Though his Contingent possessed a numerical advantage, he knew that he would have to use said advantage wisely. A direct assault on the Pords would result in a slaughter; no, he would have to rely on his speed, maneuverability, and the skill of his engineers. Traps and shells might slow down the Pordish juggernaught, but it was through trading space for time that this matter would be decided. If Scythe should route the Mayan threat, then he could proceed swiftly to link up his Contingents with the 1st to hopefully tip the tide of the battle.

If not.. If the Maya should manage to smash through Scythe and come on in force.. Then the 1st would have to attempt a breakthrough somewhere where reinforcements might arrive. But that was putting the cart before the ox; the Pords had so far been silent.

Even before the communique reached the Exalted Fleetlord's desk the lead squadrons would direct their fire toward the location of the Pordish scans, even if it exposed their positions to counter-fire. Munitions would dart across the void at targets logged sighted by targeting computers, even though that course might not have been duly wise. The Bearcats that had been screening the void up ahead plotted the Pordish craft into their targeting craft, and let fly their anti-ship torpedoes at a considerable distance. The Pords had kicked a bee hive, and would appropriately be met with a swarm of bees.

The lead formations of the 1st would relocate as soon as they had fired; their defense systems brought up to maximum efficiency. Engineers completed their last arrangements; not looking back to glance at what they had erected to, hopefully, blunt the Pordish advance. This would be a clash between the Ram and the Wolf, and in such a clash it was not best to fight a battle that played to the latter's advantage.

The greater Frankian warships would be distributed to provide ample fire support for the lesser vessels, but positioned in such a manner that they might bring their guns to bear in support of one another. Across a wide front it was not wise to take chances; without capital ships the Pords might be able to cleave through the Frankian line much more quickly. Plans were drawn for an immediate withdrawal once the Pords had reached Point Dresska where they might be able to bring their greater guns to bear to maximum efficiency.

Some of those deckside prayed for victory, most prayed for mere survival.



Position 291-321-Center-
GET DOWN!!!

Private Urgot Lind barely heard the command before she slumped to the ground; her face a bloody ruin. Corporal Johannis Hend did a rapid headcount, and found that his command had been bled bad. Some distance away Hend could hear the roar of the great bombardment; the very ground seeming to shake as the Frankian guns boomed.

Hopefully they'll pass right over us and blow these damn bastards to bits.

Wishful thinking, Hend was assured that the lot tearing his squad to shreds had faced worse. He could see them by raising his head slightly, and gave the sign for a few of his men to prime their grenades. The Pords were some distance off, and likely not to take too kindly to a handful of grenades.

Privates Hicks and Sera rose from their positions; laying down a torrent of covering fire as Hend's men threw their grenades across a considerable distance. Another man fell; his life's blood soaking the ground of this godsforsaken world. Hend could see several Frankian squads taking up positions, aiming to secure better firing positions. Just ahead Hend could see one squad attempt to make its way up towards a trench several yards ahead; a suicidal venture, if any.

A mortar shell landed just ahead of Hend; the mortars had finally entered the fray. Hend lit a cigarette, and waved for what remained of his squad to join up with their platoon. He let out an unfamiliar chuckle; some daft Voltigeur had unfurled the Green and Gold banner of the 95th Voltigeurs. We shall thin their ranks, and then break them with our bayonets!

For the eternal glory of Austrasia!!!

Hend then turned his head as soon as the lad was mowed down by Pordish fire.

A quarter league away

Lorell noted the Pordish armor, and took to ground as two of his men were cut down by enemy fire. He returned fire as best as he could; firing burst after burst at those who wished to kill him. Gods be damned. The crew of the Urlann raced to escape as their craft brewed up, but not a soul survived that that inferno. Their screams were drowned out by the roar of the quads; some directed at the heavens, others directed against the Pordish armor. They were attempting now to buy time as the infantry brought up their AUGURs, or burrowers as they were known across the Multiverse.

Lorell looked on as the AUGUR crew drove it deep into the earth, and plunged multiple groundsliders deep into the earth. They were, if fortune favored, strike at the underbelly of the Pordish tanks bearing down on them. Another Urlann suddenly brewed up, and Lorell was inclined to give the order to fall back. That was when he looked to the heavens...

To the skies
Several hundred Killercraft would breach the atmosphere, and descend as rapidly as possible through whatever the foe might direct against them. Scattered in multiple wings of loose formation, the Iscartes 39th Strike Group had been deployed in multiple theaters of war within the Greater Realm against insurgents. Now, now below was a foe who had not yet known their fury; who had not yet known the intense heat of napha.

Enemy Killercraft, reported.

Aye, High Captain Halbert noted their position on his display Wings 3-B and C-9 will take care of them, the rest follow me. Enemy positions have been lit up by our artillery; we have been called to make these chilly few ever so fewer. Prepare your quads, your napha cannisters, and let's torch these bastards.

Pordish armor, sighted.

Halbert sighed, and signaled for the 98th to break off to strafe.

Watch out for flak...

Halbert said as an afterthought. Knowing the Pords, it would fill the skies.


Rear

"Pords, in force. Artillery support requested."

The transmission would be unanswered for scarcely thirty seconds before [/b]the advanced batteries of the Frankian Army roared. The gunners would have little time to wipe the sweat from their brows before they loaded another shell and then another. Their guns would bring forth torrent of shell and shot at locations sighted by those elements most forward. Heavier guns would be assigned the task of silencing the guns of the Pordish warship, though that would be no easy task.

The Frankian artillery carried guns that came close to rivaling those of naval guns, and powerful mortars designed for smashing fortresses some thought impregnable. These were now brought into action; their seasoned gunners tasked with raining down as much firepower upon this stricken Pordish craft without further delay. Brass had given no apparent interest of capturing the stricken craft, and viewed the Pordish decision to resort to using it in its current role as an opportunity to slaughter the foe wholesalewith a barrage.

Hell cannot be so terrible as this

The great shells would be sighted on the scanners, and would find a deluge of munitions directed to them from the Frankian warships above. Some would, unfortunately, miss their mark and leave a great deal of chaos on some of the lines of advance. Vehicles dashed about as though they were child's toys, shattered wrecks of what had once been men, and craters burrowed deep into the earth. Still on the Frankians came, with ever-growing confidence as their guns were now brought to bear upon the enemy.

With the stricken craft now sighted, it was assumed that the Pords would attempt to defend it to the last man. Shellfire was expected to thin their ranks as the infantry moved up in support; by regiment, by company, by squad. Support vehicles kept close pace; anti-tank, anti-air, and anti-infantry if necessary. They would fan out to secure positions, and ready themselves for an immediate assault once the guns had done their black work. Though the Frankian Army was chronically short of men, Neustria would never stand it to be short of guns.


Colonel Kremska Lytarr bit her lip, and looked over her holotablet one last time. Her regiment had made good time on the march, and now before her she saw the Pordish lines. The 91st Marins had been raised by an Elder Prince several hundred cycles ago; it had seen service on multiple worlds. The 91st sister regiments were here, the 85th Overlanders and the 95th Voltigeurs, the best regiments raised from the rural abode of Austrasia.


FORM UP!!!

Bayonets were rammed home as some of the wounded streamed back to the rear; some were unrecognizable. That did not phase the men and women of the 91st, though some of the fresh faces seemed to pause in thought. Lytarr cocked her pistol, and gave instructions for her commanders to begin the assault on the Pordish right. By battalion and then by company they would advance to assigned positions; their lighter-field pieces being carried on multiple backs.

As Lystarr turned she noted that the mortar crews were setting up shop, and ready to provide immediate fire support if she so required. As she gazed across the field of battle she felt little need of it; the Marins would route these deckhands who thought themselves soldiers. Through shell and shot, the Austrasian regiments would advance; using the terrain for cover as best as they could.

Left

The 29th Grenadiers took note of the death and desolation on their trek; having to take cover at certain points upon their march. Now, with the enemy before them, they steeled themselves for what lay ahead. Grenades primed, rifles loaded, bayonets fixed; they would dash forward to take up positions behind the Voltigeurs.

Son of a bitch!

Colonel Alexander Pinot looked at his hand; he was missing several didgets. Ignoring the pain, he signaled for the Grenadiers to prepare the assault. In the corner of his eye he could see several squads making their way forward on their bellies, and finding cover as best as they could.

Bugler.. Sound the charge.

Aye, Colonel.

Now the Grenadiers would advance in earnest; picking their way through craters and Pordish fire. Voltigeurs, their blood up, trained their rifles on damn well any target of opportunity that the Pords presented for them. The ping of their rifles would be drowned out by the roar of the assault guns, though the cry for grenaten was heard clearly in every helmet.

At some distance the Neustrians would hurl their grenades before taking to ground; some rapidly digging foxholes even as Pordish fire came on.

We need those mortars!!!

[Olimpiada]

---

Eridu, Rastho Prime
FWOS Victorem Gaia

---

“Agreed,” replied Nassos in his usual curt fashion. “I too look forward to cooperation, but at the moment, I do have matters to attend to elsewhere. It has been a pleasure speaking with you, Lord-Admiral Argus.” He cut off the video feed, getting around to the coffee he had been wanting for some time now.

The Dominic were certainly bound to be an interesting lot. Their beliefs were similar enough to that of the Olimpiadans, in that the continued existence of the xeno was to be ended as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, the fact that they seemed to cling to a deity of some sort was disappointing. They were a great distance from understanding and following the one true faith, but it was a start.

He stepped down from the bridge, followed by a petty officer. “Get someone on the bridge while I’m out,” he said to the officer.

“Sir?” responded the evidently confused officer. He supposed he hadn’t made things clear to her.

“I’m heading down to Eridu to talk with the United Sovereigns. I expect a shuttle waiting for me by the time my maglev arrives in the hangar.” He paused briefly. “And a security detail of marines that aren’t wearing exos. We do have to appear as human as they, after all.” He muttered the last part to himself as he walked down the hallway to the terminal in which a train waited for the nearest rail to align with its current position, letting it run along the outside of the central antimatter reactor and down the length of the ship.

---

2 Billion km from Eridu, Rastho Prime
FWOS Sharp Infinity

---

Nautikos II Rastho popped out of Atenai and into Rastho Prime without a sound. Michaelides supposed this was fortunate. Back when he fought on the Izirian front, his forces had once needed to make an atmospheric jump. The sound of the sheer quantity of air displaced left his ears ringing for weeks.

“All vessels present,” reported Zeruel, Sharp Infinity’s main quantum computer. “Total ships in system: roughly ninety thousand. Analysis still uncertain due to debris that can be mistaken as active vessels. Further analysis needed.”

Michaelides winced as he heard the astronomical number. He knew what he had been getting into from the reports, but to bear witness to his own computer reporting it was soul crushing. He considered getting Nassos on the line to coordinate, but decided against it. It was likely that his fleet’s computers were already reporting the arrival of reinforcements.

He pulled up a holographic screen near his command chair, and set the fleet to burn on a trajectory that would put them in orbit of Eridu, before leaning back and trying to rest some. Outside, he could see the darkness of space periodically light up as other ships in the fleet made similar burns to follow their flagships, bright lights appearing on the rear of their ships as lasers began propelling the ships along, shining light upon everything from missile cells to large form religious inscriptions on the various hulls.

---

Aumanil, Eridu

---

Nassos’s shuttle had landed with few complications. He reasoned that this was due to the two armed gunships that had followed him down from orbit to the surface more so than any hospitality on the part of the Zergans. Not that it mattered particularly much, he was just glad he had avoided a trip through the snow.

A few guards followed him in less threatening attire than full body exos, instead opting for the standard dress uniform, with a layer of body armor concealed beneath the dress shirt. Significantly less concealed, gladii swung from their hips, and pistols rested within shoulder holsters beneath jackets.

Aumanil had so far shown itself to be a fair sight smaller than Kalaallisut, but simultaneously less disorganized. Rather than the bundles of exposed wires and pipes that came with pure utilitarianism built up over the centuries, the architects behind this city had the decency to hide them behind walls of stone and LCDs. What was far less organized however, was the people. The international roots of the US showed themselves quite clearly in the throngs of people congregating in the halls. They all spoke the same tongue as one another, but differences in accents and modes of speech were as apparent as the different styles of clothing between the cities. Regardless, they all recognized military men when they saw them, and stepped out of the way, leaving confused inquiries as to the origins of these new arrivals (and why they were a full foot taller than the average Zergan) in the wake of Nassos and his company.

After a short walk, he arrived in the United Sovereigns building. The people within were abuzz with conversation. Once they saw Nassos enter, they slowly began to quiet, with the realization of who was present, the object of their discussions having been absent all this time. A feeling of apprehension filled the cavernous room.

“Are you Nassos?” asked a voice in the back. He chose not to check who had spoken.

“Yes, this is Admiral Ioannes Nassos, here to discuss the future of your people in regards to the massing xeno threat in your system. I trust I’m not unwelcome?” His usual monotone voice gained a slightly synthetic quality as it ran through the translator, making him sound even more neutral than before.

He scanned the room. Most of the people there were politicians in the extreme. Their countenances bore the looks of those who had carefully constructed expert poker faces out of career necessity. He supposed they would bear little difference to the anthropoi back in Gaia. Professional liars looking to twist the situation to their advantage. Nassos knew he was not a politician. However, he was not in charge of keeping the federal government’s budget in check either. Perhaps humoring their interests at first might not be the worst thing.

[The Dominion of Black Sun]

Dominion Deep-Space Frontier Fleet, DES. IEDUX-9870-0473.IV
E.SD-IC (ESC) system, 194 million kilometers from EU-28901
The 'Aeternium', a Volhynia-Class Frontier Command Vessel

Upon the edge of the interdiction field which surrounded EU-28901, or Eridu, as the vernacular had so termed it, the arrival of Tullius' fleet was heralded by the emergence of several Frigateships. These small vessels were of clear physical imperfection, their once stately figures marred and worn upon by the intensities of their past engagement; it was an easy thing to forget that these same embattled warships were the more fortunate of their lot.

Shortly after the appearance of this vanguard force, the full body of the D.S.F. Fleet came to be, a complete display of the fleet's remaining assets since they'd fled New Vulcan's vicinity and charged the Pordish fleet, all of which caused great injury, and it showed. Some vessels shrugged off their wounds, pressing onward with minimal impediment, while others barely limped along, leabing tremendous, billowing clouds of smoke and debris trailing in their wake. The Aeternium was no exception, as its figure emerged from the Transverse, for although it faired better than many of the other ships in its presence, there was no doubting the force the Xenos had inflicted upon its splendid figure.

The fleet had been diminished, but it survived the encounter primarily intact, and now would begin maneuvering toward the Grand Lord-Admiral's Fifth Fleet.

---

Techfleet Commander Pyrus's expression was of its usual stiffness, but he appeared all the more tense than was normal - understandably so, given the circumstances. He'd contacted Tullius initially to inform the Lord-Admiral of the command cloud's restabilization, as it had been inexplicably and most impossibly rendered inaccessible following a brief hiccup in the system preceding their transition to EU-28901 - a circumstance he would investigate further on his own time - but the conversation had since moved on to matters pertaining to the status of the Fifth Fleet and its newfound compatriots.

"Humans? And you say Argus has struck an accord with these impostors?" Tullius sneered, his hands clutched tightly upon the arms of his throne.

Pyrus seemed to shift with discomfort on the matter, but he wasted no time with his speech, "Indeed - or such is what the minds have relayed to us. As of recent, Your Grace, I hold them in doubt of their function and verity, given my most recent-"

Tullius had already heard as much, he merely wanted to hear the word from the man's mouth - the superlative details of machines concerned him not as of right now. He mouthed a brief expletive before continuing over Pyrus' words, "I don't believe I'll ever quite comprehend the man. I always knew him as patient, perhaps in some ways tolerant.. I don't suppose I''ll ever truly understand why he does what he mustn't." Tullius leaned back, massaging his forehead as he stared ahead at the planet, Eridu, in the distance.

Pyrus spoke to enlighten his Lord's spirits with his knowledge, a futile effort but one he would make no less, "My Lord, the Grand Lord-Admiral is a man of the belief in humanity's redemption, a mindset that is of growing popularity among the Naval Aristocracy across the local Grand Frontier, as I understand.. unfortunately.. I mean not to question your wise judgement, in no way, I would never, but-"

"I accuse you of no such acts," Tullius decreed, dismissing Pyrus' perceptible level of growing discomfort. He continued once the techfleet commander had regained composure, rising from his throne, "I dare not question the wise judgement of our Grand Lord-Admiral - otherwise I'd be surely damned doubly over for having learned nothing at all in this whole ordeal. I won't, however, abscond of my thoughts, neither of his actions or of this..." Tullius searched for the name of this version of humanity's disgrace.

"Olimpiada." Pyrus assisted his Lord-Admiral, although the mere utterance of the name seemed to make Tullius wince.

"So it is," the Lord Admiral said with disdain. He paced the width of the upper command deck, rubbing his temples as he slowly walked back and forth - he was clearly deep in thought on the matter, among others. Pyrus stood idly by, unsure as to whether he should leave his Lord-Admiral's presence or not. Finally, Tullius spoke.

"Go. Establish contact with the Tallyhawl, inform the Grand Lord-Admiral I wish to speak in the Arcade Alabaster," He said with a degree of certainty.

"As is your will, Lord-Admiral. I shall keep you abreast with any and all relevant information." Pyrus said to him, to which the Lord-Admiral nodded. Pyrus bowed in return, before his facsimile form rapidly vanished into particulate xeptomata, which themselves disseminated into the floor.

Tullius let out a great sigh, taking a moment to stretch and meditate through the continuous noise of the Aeternium's functions, both of the command spire and the internal machines which reverberated throughout the ship itself - it was both rhythmic and beautiful.

His peace was shattered by the voice of the Autonomous Mind,

"My Lord, the throne awaits your exalted presence for the synchronization process to begin. The Tallyhawl has been informed and will receive you at once."

Tullius swore to himself before retreating from the platform's edge, returning to the throne. There, he allowed a minute to pass, contemplating his demeanor towards his superior officer. In some ways, he felt he ought to speak his true thoughts to Iseppien, that it was only honest that he should. And yet, he reminded himself of the last time he'd been so bold, registering now the situation they all now had found themselves within - he wouldn't make his opinions known. If only he were more virtuous.

He surrendered himself to the throne's processes, his consciousness slipping away to the darkness.

"Synchronization Call Dispatched to: IEDUX-9870-0201-5...

Call Received.

Call Accepted.

Slotting Facsimile Agent for Synchronization...

Agent Found.

Mentis Patterns active.

Synchronization Initiated."

---

Dominion Deep-Space Frontier Fleet, DES. IEDUX-9870-0201-V
55 million kilometers from EU-28901
The 'Tallyhawl', a Castigator-Class Grand Command Vessel

The Arcade Alabaster.

It had been quite some time since Argus had last visited this particular region of his vessel - he simply had no time, something for which he cursed himself as he drank in the perfection of the great arcade at his first sweeping glance, old memories returning to him at once.

Contrary to the name, the arcade itself was not entirely clad in alabaster. Rather, the soft mineral was used in abundance to ornament and accent the gallery in a variety of interesting and beautiful ways, whether through the finely-crafted fixtures, exquisite wall motifs, or mastercraft statuary - there existed a whole host of details which enabled the space to wear its name with pride. Of course, there was one feature which was practically commanding in how it defined the space - the immense false-windows of the arcade itself, towering light portals which were clad top-to-bottom in ornately construed depictions of the Everlasting Aether, composed entirely out of alabaster. The magnificent light which filtered in came not from a true sun, but the effect was brilliant no less, bathing the pure white canvas of the exuberant passage in a divine mixture of gold and white light.

The arcade was sparsely populated, with but a few servitors or other automata proceeding across its length. Aside from them, Argus was alone.

Iseppien began to progress into the arcade, his hand clasping one another behind his back. The sound of his booted steps slowly marched down the space, echoing up and down its length alongside the subdued sounds of machines' footing. In that moment, he began to whistle a small tune to himself, in a hope that the time might go by more quickly if he kept himself occupied.

Surely enough, a short time later, he could hear the crystalline sound of a facsimile agent composing itself behind him, he wheeling around to find the figure of his fellow man, Jaymes Tullius, approaching him from down the hall.

"Jaymes, how pleasant a surprise!" Iseppien joked, both men cracking a smile as they closed the distance between them. They approached one another, bowing in respect for each other's authority and title. Argus continued as they both proceeded down the tall yet narrow space, "I again wish these were greater circumstances under which we could spend time at greater leisure - in person, even, and yet they are not."

Tullius nodded in solemn affirmation, "All too true. Events, as they have come, have not been much in favor of the Greater Dominion at all, not nearly as much as I would have liked them to be."

"How have you fared?" Argus inquired, his voice full of grim curiosity.

"Poorly, or so I have deemed it. As you already knew from when we had last spoken, the situation had been degrading at a fairly steady pace, no less due to intensive Xeno bombardment of our line. Our position was in correspondence to the Xeno entity we had a previous agreement with, one which at the time seemed profitable to the interests of the deployment and Dominion as a whole, as detestable an agreement it was," Tullius expressed, disappointed.

Iseppien nodded in accord with each statement, responding: "All as I do recall. Yet I also recall advising you to relocate from that doomed position you so valiantly held - seeing that you are here now, well as ever, is proof of your fair judgement of my advice, is it not?"

Tullius gestured as though to agree with the Grand Lord-Admiral, but he was hesitant, for his mind still caught upon those unseemly memories of what happened between his last meeting with Iseppien and the battle's strange conclusion, "I wouldn't quite say so. The finer details elude me for some.. strange reason, but our withdrawal came at a moment of extreme necessity. For reasons I doubt any sensible person could know, the enemy charged our position head on. As a response, I elected to counter-charge, thus-" Tullius recounted, but Iseppien interrupted.

"Counter-charge? That certainly does not follow standard doctrine, Lord-Admiral, although I shouldn't chide you for being so novel. Under what reasoning did you commit to this maneuver?" Argus seemed strangely fascinated, for he was not always so keen upon upholding the ancient and, to him, antiquated doctrines of applying sheer weight of force to overcome the enemy, although he did know how high mobility on the battlefield was not one of the Dominion's great strengths, not without great care and careful planning. To hear such a rare tactic be employed with a margin of success was both something which defied his present logic and yet intrigued him to no end, as well as something for which he did not expect from Tullius, who was of a much more classic mindset than himself where military doctrine came into play - and yet so was he in his early, more formative years.

"With all sincerity, I must apologize, for I would explain if only I were of the capacity to. I suspect some of the arcane forces at work in this field must have played upon my vessel's systems - my mind has been in a state of such conflict since I last departed from the consciousness cloud. I have consulted with my fleet's lords and confirmed that several others have reported the same, so I believe interference of some kind to be the cause. I ask that you forgive me for slighting you of such information, Grand Lord-Admiral; under any other circumstance I assure I would readily provide you with every detail.." Tullius spoke truthfully, for he truly was uncertain what was at work to cause such an incomplete image.

On the contrary, Iseppien had a small idea what the real reasons for such confusion were, "Worry it not, I pardon you in these curious times for suffering from curious ailments. What of the fleets, how did they match up?"

"The fleets.." Tullius said, his tone of subtle defeat as he rehashed events in his mind, "the xeno threat, one whose identity was beyond our translators capacity to make sense of beyond the term 'Pordish', amounted to a force of roughly two-hundred ships, or at very least what we could identify as such - this was compared to our ninety-two, sixty-three of which were force-dedicated combat vessels, the Aeternium included." Tullius listed out the variables as they entered his mind, the two of them continuing their slow stroll in the arcade's brilliant glow. Several automata of varying nature passed them by, and he continued after a momentary pause, "Of them, though, we were able to identify two capitals, both of which were exceptionally larger than the vessels of both their fleet and my own, including the Aeternium, by an exceptional margin. Of them, one had been committed to combat my fleet, the other Xeno war vessel moving to engage the Morimpan forces in the vicinity. All of this comes to me from the reports of my techfleet commander, Thommand Pyrus."

The Grand Lord-Admiral stroked his chin as he listened along, illustrating Tullius' words in his mind, "Indeed, a battle many would not have undertaken with command of but a mere frontier fleet - you were brave to do so, perhaps foolish even, but the Lord Star shall reward you for you courage and loyalty." Iseppien spoke with sincerity and good heart, though his statements left his counterpart most certainly confused. "You seem unhappy with my observation, from what does this stem?" Argus led Tullius.

The lesser Lord-Admiral struggled for a moment to understand Iseppien's meaning, but he caught on to its nature sure enough, "I hope to incur no ill will, My Lord, but you give me praise as I count out twenty-one vessels lost, against my record and good name! It is to my greatest shame I inform you of this truth." Tullius' exclamations highlighted how troubled he was over his own inability to minimize his losses; the vessels struck down were of fine craft, and in many ways Tullius could recount several things he could have done different.

To Tullius' greatest confusion, Iseppien could do little else than laugh. They approached upon a row of small, cushioned seats, to which Iseppien invited Tullius to sit with him, "Lord-Admiral, I should hope you think higher of the deployment than to doubt its ability to replace twenty or so ships, and of course you do, your family is quite well acquainted with the Dominion heavier industries, as I do recall. Naturally, that is not to discount those valiant servants to our Crown Lord, whose service we honor and respect in our actions in life, actions we commit to in their stead. And yet, they rest peaceably under the watchful eyes of the Beacon now, while you are here before me, suffering more than they. Axxota is now imminent upon us, you have done your due diligence for the Dominion here in bringing to the deployments acute attention such barbaric xenos and vile heresy, and in that I only see praise." The Grand Lord-Admiral spoke firmly of Tullius, lending the lesser Lord-Admiral the necessary confidence to restore him from the burning pains of his defeat at New Vulcan.

Bowing his head in thanks, Tullius responded, "I am undeserving of such recognition, Your Grace, yet I can do little else than appreciate its restorative effect."

Iseppien returned the gesture of thanks, "Now, you spoke so willingly of our losses, what of theirs?" Argus inquired. His eyes studied a bust of the Commander-Saint Ereb Al-Ratir, derived entirely out of fine alabaster.

"The numbers are not well-calibrated to what it might actually be, but the value has been approximated to be between forty and fifty xeno vessels, including the capital engaging us directly. But.. well, a serious contributor the enemy's casualties was a most disturbing and unnatural series of transverse cascades, likely to have been brought on due to the same strange disturbances which had afflicted the consciousness cloud. The ensuing chaos subdued at least one of the xeno capital vessels most assuredly, at the expense of three of our own, and one other early on the fight." Tullius relayed the information to Iseppien with no great pleasure, although he seemed of better poise than he had previously.

"Are we only fortunate enough that these catastrophe's came to be of some use, forbid that they should have detonated in such a way amidst your fleet.. no matter. We will be better for it now, and we may celebrate these successes - once we have formally welcomed a tame Westerian to our number," Argus spoke in a matter-of-fact fashion, rising from the seat, prompting Tullius to follow after. Argus turned to face him, placing his hands upon the younger mans shoulders with a firmness that commanded authority and respect, "Above all of this, Lord-Admiral, I hope that you are learning. Very few of your age are so fortunate to suffer in the ways that you have suffered on this day. They might spend their whole lives without even coming to know what it is be defeated, what it is to lose, for only then can you truly know what it is to be victorious. And you shall know." Argus meant what he said, he felt a genuine level of appreciation in the fact that his younger compatriot was afforded a chance not even he himself had been so honored with, even if it was embedded in an initial circumstance meant to be his end - in him, he saw great promise.

"Again, I am honored, Your Grace. I shall think of this as all a grand opportunity to become better acquainted with the realities of our cause," Tullius humbly declared, words which pleased the Grand Lord-Admiral, a smile lighting his face as he released the younger man from his hold.

"I am pleased to hear it." Argus stated, "Now that I am well informed about your recent progress, I shall inform you of mine. As I've made known to you, Westerian and his Dread Fleet Axxota will be in our presence shortly. Your recent past with him will be of no issue; he no longer holds jurisdiction over your fate - that I have decided." Iseppien's words seemed to strike Tullius with a measure of relief. They continued along the arcade.

"I should like to reconcile with the Prince-Admiral over any past disputes. I am of no great opinion of him, but I do have several private interests in his house," The younger admiral explained, referring to several business-related contracts which were entangled with several of the deployments great families, House Westerian being amongst them almost unavoidably.

"Don't count too hard upon it, I can importune upon him obedience as an admiral, but I hold little sway in business or politics - I've little care for such things, and I hope you'll see the honor in that." Iseppien voiced calmly as they paced along.

Tullius conceded at once, "Of course, Your Grace, it is of no terribly large importance regardless. I apologize if I overstepped."

"You did not. I have power where I have interest, and I am perfectly willing to utilize it where it can inconvenience the callous Prince-Admiral in any way." They both laughed at the thought, for neither man had any love for Westerian, yet he was a necessary evil in both of their lives. As Grand Lord-Admiral of the deployments naval host and local representative of the Naval Aristocracy, Iseppien had no choice but to deal with the local royalty of the deployment, although a bitter history with the Prince-Admiral had bound their fates together as friends and foes both. Likewise, Tullius' familial relations tied him closely to the Prince-Admiral's own family, through politics and commerce, forcing him to forever remain somewhere in his vicinity. This common relationship had bound Iseppien and Tullius together in many ways, both happy or otherwise. Here, their companionship practically glowed.

"Beyond matters of the now, I mean to speak to you on matters pertaining to the Dominion's future endeavors. With no small thanks to your actions, it is clear and present the Dominion has great interests here, and as such, I do intend for there to be a substantial increase in the deployment's naval presence in these regions of space." Iseppien articulated himself well, as Tullius continued to listen along, "I do not mean for but only a few hundred more frontier fleets, I mean a complete shift of the deployment's campaign in a new and more substantial direction. There will be separate forays into neighboring galactic bodies for affirmation of what has been reported over the past few decades, and if it is confirmed that there truly does exist a massive Xeno presence, there will be nigh-immediate action."

Tullius was quite surprised. He came into this conflict with precisely this in mind, but he had long-since dismissed those thoughts of a seeming and fanciful reality as exactly that - seeming and fanciful. Here, faced with unquestionable truth, he was in many ways shocked in others delighted; he cursed this day for the extremes it played upon his very soul.

"I hope you don't disapprove. I believe you will play a much larger role in the formative years of this campaign than you did in the last - should you continue to prove yourself, naturally." Tullius spoke, dangling before him opportunity with almost a cruelness to it.

"I would never question your expertise, Grand-Lord Admiral" Tullius padded, as muddy thoughts of his previous criticisms splashed through his mind, "I look ever forward to seeing the Dominion aspire to new heights in this new and wonderful business we shall undertake."

"Indeed, indeed. By the end of today, word will have reached the inner territories, and surely enough, Crownspire. By the week's conclusion, we shall be fully prepared to begin upon our new direction, to begin at once." Iseppien seemed quite pleased with all of this, for although he would have his critics and his own personal reservations, the deployment's growth had been abysmal for well over a century and a half noe, and he knew it was high time for a change at grand scale. He'd known this particular region was masking behind it something of value, but without sufficient proof, he would find support among his peers and superiors most difficult to attain. For some time now, he'd been searching these regions for anything greater than paltry, low-tier civilizations, pitiable constructs of nature's wastefulness and disorder - and so through Tullius, it had at last been found.

In due time, with patience and careful preparation, Argus could stand at the head of a new crusade, and at last bury his shame.

---

Tullius and Iseppien continued down the Arcade Alabaster, talking of all manners of things - war, politics, social encounters and strange rumors, even life itself - and both would gain of each other's wisdom and experience. Their figures, proceeding side by side, vanished at the other end of the hall, where they would continue on to ultimately to the Starboard Observatory. There, they would continue to socialize, speaking of the past, present and future, for once more did the Dominion seem to have true purpose.

For them, and, for Etna.

It was by the will of the Eternal Black Sun that she was given true life and meaning. Once, she thought she understood her purpose, and yet now, as she extended her will over machines and men alike, she found her blessing would carry her to horizons she once could not even see.

The present, however, was an existence of enough worth to her that she was content, at least for now. She could feel the inner yearning, the dawn of new aspirations to set even Iseppien aside for something of vastly greater promise.

Etna looked over the report which had arrived from Tullius' fleet. It was nothing exceptional, an otherwise plain and somewhat disappointing document, and yet she viewed as much a reflection of her own work as it was of Tullius, and what improvements were there to be made...

Code: Select all

---

Engagement Status Report [#000093-105209]...

---

Engagement Combatants:

>1.[92]: D.D.S.F.F IEDUX-9-0.4 [L-A J. Tullius, D.S.F.V Aeternium]...

>2.[190-220]: Unrecognized XENO Force [::"Pour.disch"::"Admiral"::"Kul.nac"::"Division"::"Brigade"::"Hatred"]...

Post-Engagement Adjustment:

>1.[71] - 18 Losses Due to MASS SYSTEM FAILURE - 3 Losses Due to CATACLYSMIC STRING DRIVE BREACH [Retaliotte.Kavanagh.Propsero]...

>2.[50-70] - Insufficient Data; Certain Losses attributed to CATACLYSMIC STRING DRIVE BREACH [Retaliotte.Kavanagh.Propsero]...

---

Engagement Location:

Proximity of EU-24321, E.SD-IC System...

---

Engagement Premise:

Unrecognized XENO Force failed to yield to DISPATCH#24321-2, hostility declared...

---

Engagement Tactical Objective:

>T1.Elimination or Forced Withdrawal of all forces of Unrecognized XENO Force...

>T2.Maintenance of Position until Reinforcement Elements Arrive...

Engagement Strategic Objective:

>S1.Preserve Accord between "Morimpa Republic" and the Greater Dominion of Black Sun...

>S2.Provide IEDUX Deployment with Potential Territorial Claims...

>S3.Remove Local Xeno Elements from E.XX-XX Region...

Objective Status:

>T1: PARTIAL FAILURE

>T2: FAILURE; Forces Withdrew

>S1: Unknown

>S2: OBJECTIVE TRANSFERRED

>S3: OBJECTIVE TRANSFERRED

---

COMPLETE ENGAGEMENT ASSESSMENT: TACTICAL DEFEAT, MINOR LOSSES, FORCE RELOCATION TO: EU-28901, E.SD-IC System

...
...
...

REINFORCEMENTS RECOMMENDED - REINFORCEMENTS INBOUND



[Ella2 6]

Trials of Smoke and Water

Around New Vulcan
ESS Temple of Orion
Admiral Ray Jefferson

The Temple of Orion pressed forward, her destroyed engines occasionally releasing fiery vapours into the darkness behind them, choking and spluttering as the ship crawled along. Smoke billowed out in unfathomable volumes from the burning bank of ion thrusters, their great bulks now rendered useless by an internal cataclysm. But the ship was still very much alive and powered on through the inky void, leaving clouds of toxic fumes trailing in her wake. The potent stuff seemed reluctant to dissipate into the expanse, hanging around in dark umbrae and blinding observers to the whereabout of the pursuing Morimpans.

The Observer made that clear enough, putting down his set of spy glasses and shaking his head at an anxious Jefferson. "I still can't see them," he reported needlessly, "The smoke's not going to let up." As if on cue, the vessel emitted a heavy rumble from deep within, causing the entire superstructure to shake softly beneath their feet. A thick cloud of smoke erupted from the stern, masking the stars in a shadowy veil.

"What was that?" Ray demanded.

The engineering department had been a nervous hubbub since the ship first suffered damage. One of the eggheads turned from the group to reply. "Sir, one of our gas tanks ruptured. We're leaking fuel." Ray nodded as he digested the information, resisting the urge to swear profoundly. "At least all this smog is making an effective smokescreen," the Engineer continued, "we can't detect anything through it and the Morimpans would likely be hard pressed to do the same." With a heavy sigh, Ray agreed and said no more. The Engineer, sensing the conversation was concluded, sat back down to resume his work.

The signals officer broke the melancholy that had settled on the bridge with an unexpected announcement. "Sir," Gleam began, a hint of uncertainty in his tone, "we've just picked up a set of signals from nearby the system: A warp signature and a broadcasted message. Our transceivers are damaged and so the signals were scrambled, but we've been running some calculations for the past few minutes and there's a good chance that Rear Admiral Ingram's detachment of the 1st Starfleet has arrived in-system."

Ray lightened up considerably at the news. "How sure are you?" He asked, just to be sure.

"Fairly certain," the clone replied, taking a glance back at his screen before nodding assuredly. "Fairly certain."

"Double check again just to be on the safe side," Ray urged, wary of celebrating too soon. "If we can, try and contact them and let them know of our situation."

"That's going to be a tad tricky," Gleam explained, "we've lost the AI and the photocryptograph array is broken. We can still dispatch plain text transmissions via the auxiliary transmitter but there's limited encryption with that and everyone can intercept the message. We'd be broadcasting our position away for Morimpan guns to trace."

Ray considered this conundrum carefully. Despite the lack of propulsion, the ship was making good headway. Just not good enough. He found himself counting. In a mere ten minutes, the Morimpans would have caught up to them. They needed more time to rendezvous with the 1st Starfleet. Time which they did not have. He considered the possibilities of sending the rest of the fleet ahead and retrieving help or even acting as a rear guard action but dismissed the notion almost as soon as it came to him. Strenght lay in numbers, and numbers he did not have.

Suddenly the ship lurched forward, and the broken structure groaned in protest at the rough treatment. "What's going on?" Ray demanded. The engineers gave him a helpless shrug. "Well find out then, and quickly."

"Sir, we appear to be turning..." Cropper observed dryly, yanking at the helm to correct the ship's course, "and we don't seem to be stopping."

Ray turned a baleful eye to the Engineering department which offered no solutions nor explanations thus far. "Time's wasting."

Several minutes passed before the technical department responsible for the well-being of the ship was able to deliver their report. "We're still not sure what it really is right now," one of them began without looking up from his screenful of data charts and constantly changing numbers, "but it's ongoing. We think it might be the helium from our fuel tanks heating up and expanding in such a way it's acting like a turbojet. Regardless, if we put the thrusters we have left on low and match the force, we can potentially have propulsion again."

"If that is the case," another technician chimed in, "we'll be able to keep burning for a good few minutes. But if that is the case, we're leaking a hell of a lot of fuel and we'll be hard pressed to manoeuvre lest we burn ammunition."

Ray considered the statements and found them unappealing, but the ship was leaking fuel and that fact would not likely change. And besides, the alternatives were much worse than an immobile ship. "Might as well use everything we have to get a bit further," Ray decided, "get those thrusters online."

Cropper eased the helm back into neutral position and the ship picked up speed once more. The rest of the fleet lagged for a second or two before they matched their acceleration, applying their own thrusters to maintain the tight formation still demanded when disengaging to maximise the effectiveness of their layered defences. Behind them, still hidden by vile, black plumes, the Morimpan Armada closed in for the kill.

[The St Templar Banking Union]

Tor'vrak, New Vulcan
Tor'vrak Army Headquarters

"I didn't think they'd come down after us," Tor'Pime, War marshal of Tor'vrak and the highest authority of the local garrison, commented, "There's nothing of value left down here."

His second in command, a small and wiry Gel'durka by the name Key'Fren, nodded in agreement. "It certainly appears so. But reports are coming in from all over the place that there are massive troop movements of unknown allegiance making their way through the countryside." Indeed, the holographic map of the locality was pockmarked with green banners. The destruction of the air fleet, however, meant scouting out the strength and composition of those forces was out of the question and what little intel they had came from telescopes on the tall watchtowers of the city walls. An inadequate substitute for far more sophisticated information gathering techniques.

Their discussion was interrupted by another Gel'durk who brought some valuable information to them. The warrior placed a fist over his heart and bowed from his waist to his superior. Tor'Pime returned the gesture. "You've news, Warrior?"

"Yes, Sier," the soldier replied, "urgent dispatch from the front."

"There is no front," Key'Fren stated firmly, but she could not help but allow a tinge of uncertainty to enter her tone. Tor'Pime glanced at her and waved the soldier on.

"Well, now there is. The Green Standard is advancing towards the city. One of our checkpoints in the outer suburb of Tho'Glen - spared by the Morimpa Firestorm - was taken by the Green Standard. There was a skirmish after our warriors refused to lay down their arms."

"I see..." The Base Commander said at length, "Is that all?"

"Yes, Sier." Tor'Pime waved him off and turned back to the map. The warrior bowed to his superior's back and left quickly.

Tor'Pime frowned as he studied the map, pinpointing the aforementioned settlement and moving one of the green banners into position on top of it. "We know they're coming our way now," he said thoughtfully, tracing a path from the suburb into the heart of the city of Tor'vrak via the highway, "if the main road is still intact, the Green Standard's mechanised units should arrive in a matter of two to three hours." He jabbed a finger at the highway. "We need scouts to monitor the approach."

"I'll get a reconnaissance force together," the Deputy Commander agreed, scribbling a note on her datapad, "will that be all?"

"For now."

The two continued to stare at the tactical map in silence, both keenly aware of the disadvantaged they were without sufficient, live intel on troop movements within their vicinity. Tor'Pime feared that local defence forces would be unable to respond quickly enough to an attack and be overwhelmed without an early enough warning. Key'Fren, on the other hand, was concerned that any ill-advised mobilisation of manpower could lead to hostility with yet another vast power. For all they knew, the Green Standard could have been an enemy of the Morimpans, and antagonising these star men could lead to the loss of a potential ally.

"Any word from the Ellians?" Tor'Pime asked. His assistant shook her head. He sighed. The high-power transmission equipment has mostly been destroyed in the Morimpan ground campaign and the ensuing orbital bombardment. While technicians were scrambling to get the communications arrays functional again, they were effectively mute and deaf on the ground and the uncertain weight of the Green Standard was bearing down on them fast.

Their eyes both fell upon the same spot on the holographic map; a crudely rendered model of a downed Ellian sloop-of-war. "Have we contacted the Pords yet?" Tor'Pime asked, tapping on the image of the vessel. They had no files on the so-called 'Pords' as of yet other than what little the Ellians had supplied to them - which they themselves had obtained from the GESO in scare amounts. This meant that the computer had to make do with the models it had and so far, an allied vessel was deemed the most suitable.

"No Sier," Key'Fren replied, "We've dispatched General Key'Zhao to investigate the Strangers' craft. We have not heard back from them yet."

Tor'Pime stroked his chin thoughtfully, "Very well then. Keep me updated on their progress. If you can get through to them, ask them for a sitrep."

"As you wish, Sier."

He looked down at the holographic map again, his gaze captured by the slowly advancing Green Standards whose indicators refreshed their positions every minute or so when observers were able to calculate distance. One way or the other, the populace has to be safe in the event of an engagement. While the vast network of underground tunnels was rendered unusable by the Firestorm, there was still a small handful of facilities and strongholds they can withdraw the people into.

"Pass it down the chain: Assemble the militia and get everyone else in the city into these locations." He highlighted a small number of fortresses, bases and large, easily defendable buildings close to the centre of the city. "Move all available warbands to these areas to defend them and for the love of Fec'Ione keep a close eye on those cavalry units we have left."

"Of course, Sier." Key'Fren bowed quickly and hurried off to make necessary arrangements and relay orders in preparation for an attack.

The War Marshal moved the army formations on the map around to reflect something resembling what he supposed the defence of the city would look like. The board was set and it was time for the Green Standard to make their move. May the gods forbid they gain the initiative from the get-go.

---

Tor'vrak, New Vulcan
Some Distance from Tor'vrak

Key'Zhao directed the rest of his warband of some two hundred warriors to a more advantageous position close by while the Franks were busy engaging the Pords and have yet to notice them. The tall, flat ridge with dotted with the charred remains of forests and they made for one of the thicker groves. He held up a hand for halt when he judged they were in a good position. He squinted at Frankish ranks, noting their columns in the distance. "Someone get eyes on those positions for me."

"Yes, Sier."

Glancing back at the Pordish line, the militiamen remarked on the skirmish below. "Strangers' giving them a hard time." Indeed, Key'Zhao saw, the Pords seemed to have been able to temporarily halt the Green Standard advance, but he knew the momentum would start to shift as the rear ranks of the Franks caught up with the action.

A sergeant came to a crouch beside him, a pair of binoculars in his hands. The Gel'durk peered into the distance, recognising the unmistakable green and the strange horned creature on distance banners. "Green Standards," he muttered slowly scanning the horizon with his binoculars, "and some other flags."

"Yes, tell me something I don't know," Key'Zhao said irritably.

The watchman shrugged indifferently and continued to sweep his gaze along the Frankish columns before stopping suddenly, adjusting the zoom on his device. "Artillery. There've field guns and howitzers moving up some lim'ticks behind infantry columns." He paused for a second, zooming out some more. "Looks like calvary's spearheading the advance."

"Birds in the air, Sier," another soldier reported, pointing up to numerous black dots manifesting in the distance.

"No time to dig in," The Gel'Durk General concluded, "Spread out and find heavy cover in case the aircraft decide to strafe us. Sergeant, keep a close eye on those howitzers. Be ready to pull off the ridge as soon as they start pointing at us." A chorus of acknowledgement and the warriors scattered. "Someone go down and tell Wes'hoth to start shooting. Radio, tell HQ we've found the Strangers and we're engaging Green Standard."

By now, the Frankish lines were almost parallel to their line of fire, meaning his warband would able to hit the Franks from the flanks, a fact would probably offset the numerical advantage held by the green banner bearers. Key'Zhao powered up his rifle, setting the internal motor whirring to life, and levelled his rifle, using the charred roots of a broken tree stump to steady his aim. He fired into the Frankish infantry cowering behind rocks and in ditches almost as if they willed to become one with the landscape to escape the onslaught of Pordish munitions.

Laser beams darted out from further along the ridge, each lasting no longer than one could blink. Battery-like capacitors - each about the size of a small rifle cartridge - rolled into the dust each time he pulled the trigger, sending another confused, bewildered Frank spawling onto the ground; their uniforms charred black and flesh vapourised where he had aimed.

Behind him, someone was shouting into the radio above the clamour of gunfire coming from below (Gel'Durk laser rifles were near-silent save for the constant hum of the motor and gears). He caught a few words before the thundering of distant artillery drowned the man out.

"... we've made contact with the Strangers! Repeat! We have made con..."

---

Rastho Prime
New Vulcan

Kyv'Tamara frowned irritably as her tactical officer updated her on the state of affairs in the Rastho Prime system. It had been a while since she has paid any heed to that particular front, having been completely mentally and physically pre-occupied with driving the Ellian advance forces from the system before the main force can arrive and establish a firm foothold in the region. Her absorption in her current engagement, however, could have led her to commit a crucial mistake: She may have completely lost the trust of the Dominion of Black Sun, a potentially vital asset in the Empire's ambitions. Had she been successful in completely eliminating the Ellian threat, the trade-off may have been worth the risk. But as it stands, she seemed to have lost both heads and tails of the same coin toss...

"What do you mean you "lost the target"?" She spat, turning a pair baleful eyes on the Veldorian, "You lost the heat signature of a target in the vacuum of space?"

Vel'Sahara ducked behind her workstation to avoid the venomous glare of her commanding officer. "The enemy ship is crippled and burning," she explained quickly, "the fire is throwing up a lot of smoke and blinding our sensors. But they won't get very far without reliable propulsion."

Kyv'Tamara continued to regard the intelligence officer menacingly for some time before allowing her gaze to return to the small speck of dust in the distance that was the Ellian retreat. She stared after the slowly dissipating cloud in silence, considering her next move. Apparently, numerous forces of various affiliations have joined the fray since they initiated their engagement with the Ellian forces. Most of them either belonged to the galactic coalition of inferiors who called themselves the GESO or were part of the multiversal alliance of elder races, the UMS.

What struck Kyv'Tamara the most was the sudden decline in the number of GESO-aligned forces following the 'tactical withdrawl' of the GESO's lead element, the United Terran Alliance. Following that particular event, GESO activity dwindled significantly, leaving only minor a presence of the Ellians, Federationists and Pords...

Pords.

The word stuck in her mind as if she subconsciously recognised some significance in the name. Indeed, how strange the Pordish were; a prominent member of both organisations, no doubt wielding vast influence in all its circles. The Pords, she realised, was the key to this affair. If anyone can persuade both of these unruly bands of idiots - with unnecessarily large guns - to stop interfering with the business of the greater power, it would be these Pords.

She also noticed the presence of the neutral power which had settled on the ice ball of Eridu and struck an uneasy truce with the Dominion of the Black Sun. She supposed that she could allow these interlopers, dubbing themselves 'the Federated Worlds of Olimpiada,' to remain in the area provided they do not interfere with the goals of the Empire. Regardless, she had at her hands a growing list of personalities she needed to contact following the lengthy radio silence which she had allowed to descend upon the Morimpan forces.

Yet before she did any of this, there was a more pressing matter that required her immediate attention. The realm of Frankia has appeared to devote a large force to this particular region for some reason or other completely oblivious to Kyv'Tamara. What she does know, however, is that the fleet of over eight thousand vessels could prove absolutely pivotal to establishing stability in the region should she be able to retain them in her service. Furthermore, she was willing to wager a power capable of fielding such an extensive asset in a single deployment could prove a powerful ally in the future. She wasted no time in hailing the massive fleet.

"Helmsman, turn us around. We're heading back to New Vulcan. Have Commodore Zew'Tyrone's unit continue to pursue the Ellians. The rest of the fleet is to head back with us. Prepare to engage GESO forces."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Begin transmission to the Frankia fleet."

"Exalted Fleetlord Wilhelm Marbeck of the 12th Fleet of the Dread Realm," she greeted through the transmission, a direct video link between the flagships of the two fleets. "I'm Admiral Kyv'Tamara Epop of the United Morimpan Republics," she continued, performing a small, courteous bow as she did so, "I have received your message and on behalf of the Empire, I accept your offer to assist us in our endeavours. Your assistance is most appreciated. I do apologise for the delayed response. I was caught up in a rather urgent situation..."

She trailed off tacitly and paused to think whilst giving the impression of being apologetic. "Anyhow, I understand that such assistance is mutual. My forces are ready by the tide to aid you in the void. I am redeploying my fleet to your location as we speak. However, I regret to inform you that we would be unable to maintain the same level of readiness on the ground."

---

Aumanil, Eridu
United Sovereigns Headquarters Building

"Of course not. Please, take a seat if you will." It was the Chairman of the United Sovereigns, his tone all business, even in small talk. "Our representative who you've met previously, miki-Eriksen, has just departed. But while he was here, he briefed us on the current state of conflict presently dominating our solar system. There appears to be a rather large statue floating around our stellar neighbourhood, and most of us here, particularly the Vexxson President miki-Kanosak, were wondering what you were planning on doing with it." He gestured politely to a lavishly dressed man a few seats to the right.

Kanosak glared quickly at the US Chairman. He did not appreciate being singled out as taking particular interest in this snoat-less foreigner, but he recovered his posture near-instantly. "Yes, that is correct," he said quickly, neglecting the standard custom to bow before speaking at a formal assembly; he figured the foreigner would not be able to appreciate the finesse that was Zerga culture. "I am keenly interested in your plans on how to tackle forces capable of field such a... craft. Ambassador Eriksen estimated that it was some five thousand megaduri long. Our own reports confirmed it to be a more or less accurate figure."

Across the room, with his back to Nassos, Matthyac could not help but let a small smile break across his features. Eriksen would be disappointed not to have heard first-hand the President of the Vexxon hold him in such high regard as to refer to him as an 'ambassador,' even if it was only tongue-in-cheek. He recomposed himself as the chair beside his scraped the tiled floor rather loudly and the General stood up. No doubt she intended to make the noise, for every pair of eyes in the room were on her.

She bowed quickly from the waist and turned to face Nassos, apparently satisfied by what she saw after a split second of studying him. "Admiral Nassos. General Yuralria of the Aklaq nation, Eriksen's highest commanding officer. I understand that you're here to discuss strategies to combat the increasing presence of hostile forces in our home system. I believe that it is necessary first to advise you on the progress of our current resolution regarding the situation and perhaps we can work from there." She resumed her seat with much less flourish and the room fell into an apprehensive silence with most members turning their gazes expectantly to the Chairman.

The Chairman kept his expression neutral, hiding his annoyance at the General. He had deliberately avoided the topic of said resolution and intended to continue to do so for the duration of Nassos' presence. Apparently, the woman was perceptive enough to sense his intentions and was displeased with his resolve. "Very well," he nodded, "Following miki-Eriksen's departure, the assembly has been discussing a resolution regarding the conflict. We have voted in favour of allowing the Olimpiadan Federal Navy to use our planet as a forward base of operations and to supply the Federal Fleet. You have our support." He neglected to mention the fact that the War Council had vetoed a second resolution regarding the deployment of Zergan forces and elected to ignore much of Yuralria's glower.

[Pordlandia]

Those Who Wield the Chorzhalb
New Vulcan

Franks are engaging in earnest now. Men haven't had the time to relocate to the surrounding towns, Narlok says; his hologram flickers through the dim lighting.

Borchük nods slowly. This can mean only one thing: his vessel will be under direct threat much sooner than anticipated. The subtle shaking of the floor seems to confirm this as what remains of the vessel's point defense opens up in defense of the craft. His hand slowly curls into a fist. Adjust for counter-battery fire, he says.

Tasinehdao, the orders are echoed across the bridge. The Frankish gunners have taken it upon themselves to target Arctic Willow directly. Though he can't fault them for their tenacity, it does mean his own pieces cannot be used directly against the front. Fortunately with everything being routed through the unified fire-control of a single vessel, it is far easier for him to adjust his batteries than if he had more conventional ground-based pieces under his command. There is a brief pause as the PSKM retrain but it does not take long for the rounds to start landing further back where the Franks have their own emplacements.

The vessel shakes as a hostile round hits home - its terrible form crashes into what remains of the vessel's ocean of Lynak armour. The only saving grace for Borchük is that here, on the planet's surface, relativistic ordnance (the type the armour excels against) is toned down in velocity to much more reasonable speeds... In most cases, anyway. This affords his ship greater durability against incoming ordnance than would otherwise be the case. He appreciates the convenience.

Narlok once more speaks up: Can you retrain your pieces being used for point defense?

To cover your men still? No.

Borchük's forcefulness takes Narlok by surprise. His hologram recoils slightly.

I am sure you understand, Narlok, why this is the case, Borchük continues. He nods to himself as if to confirm his own commentary.

Narlok turns his head to the side rather quickly; observer might think he's noticed something off in the distance. But no. His gaze drifts down to his own holographic displays and the various unit-positions on them. The Franks are pressing his lines in earnest now. Any attempts by his men to take up positions in the surrounding towns will need to be done while under hostile fire. It can still be done, he muses to himself.

Borchük breaks his line of thought: Either way, we've batteries to deal with now. I've a hunch we've more guns than the Franks here for the time being, but if they bring in more pieces...

His voice trails off into the distance. Along the hull the weapon emplacements don't take up much room, but many of the turrets are on the underside or along the flanks, and much of the ship now is submerged in the crust of this terrible planet. These positions obviously cannot be used, and of the pieces that are useable... Well, if Narlok hadn't taken so many men for his excursion on land... Then again, such things could not be helped. Narlok is a Paramarine attaché in charge of ground combat and ship-to-shore operations. He is only doing his job.

Borchük composes his thoughts a bit more; just keep the Franks busy, he says.

New Vulcan, Frankish Far Left (Pordish Right - Western Flank)
Brigade Chrühov Arctic Willow

Vast plumes of dust kick high into the air from the treads of hundreds of Yünak type RPCs ridden by infantry clad in blue and gray tunics with fur hats. A few standards fly from their RPCs, but mostly they tow small artillery pieces, caissons, or nothing at all. The terrible conditions, combined with their own created dust, serves to help conceal their movement.

Franks've got a few columns moving up to our left flank from firebases somewhere behind this main line, the Zhyssian says. He gestures out across the front for emphasis and then points along their general path of advance. Tanks. Infantry.

He motions into the air for the Pords to come to a halt; they do so.

Doesn't look like they're stopping much, a Pord notes. She eyes the detected Frankish positions on her holomap.

They're bypassing places of heavy resistance, the Zhyssian explains.

The other Pord looks up from her holomap. The reverberations of heavy artillery off in the distance can be felt - even here - and the low droning of attack craft can be made out just above the other sounds of distant battle. She turns her attention back to her RPC.

Let's keep moving south, the Zhyssian - Narlok's second in command - orders.

The Pords once more begin to move. They've not yet encountered any resistance - odd - but it isn't likely their luck will remain forever. Just as long as they can make note of some of the formations being fielded, that's all they really need to do. The Zhyssian waves the Pords around a small rock outcropping that, at one point, seems as if it would have been an island in a river; the dried up channel they soon push through confirms the Zhyssian's suspicions.

This should be far enough. There are Franks beyond our positions here to the west and we're going to need to make note of them. Yüvazh?

NokeshteJloknam Yüvazh nam-Shyn appears on his communicator. Tasi, nam Nokeshte Zhälnar nam-Chünezhnaren?

We've got Franks a little ways off from here. Want you to take your battalion and scout them in close proximity. Report back what you find, but do not get to heavily engaged, the Zhyssian orders.

Tasinehdao! nam-Shyn replies.

No more than three hundred Yünak type RPCs split off and away from the main group; their overall heading and course will take them very near the Frankish eastern flank (their right), while the rest of the brigade, with still four other battalions each with a couple hundred Chrühov within their ranks, continues to descend south.

New Vulcan, Frankish Left (Pordish Right - Western Flank)
1st Division Chünezhnar Guards Kenzhelengrazhni Arzhnützhyv'an

Seafaring Soldiers

Standing in the west, the Pords of the Arctic Willow's own infantry corps - the naval infantry of the 1st Rifle Division of the Magnificent Glacier Guard of the Arctic Willow - are eager and ready to blunt the assault of the seasoned Marins and her sister regiments. Barely visible through the hazy smog the infantry have adopted a very defensive posture, but compared to the Paramarines holding to their east, their positions are much more malleable.

Of the sixteen thousand men who survived the battle up to the this point, Narlok has managed to cobble together no more than five thousand to form the ad-hoc division. It is shoddy, but Pords are Pords and they will do their best to hold the line: the cataclysmic rumbling of heavy guns shakes the line from east to west; the naked roar of artillery is not something the sailors encounter regularly, and it settles deep within them, shaking some of them... But not all of them.

An officer draws her sword.

They're pushing through the smoke! Pin them on the rocks!

A few fresh corpses to her left settle down further into the dirt, their bloody forms seeming to merge with the soil. She can see a Frank crawling forward in the distance; her carbine is raised (and sword lowered) and fired at the infantryman, but he is quick to take aim with his own weapon and return fire.

Heavier infantry weapons fire erupts in a wild flurry to her left - kicking up dirt and dust all along the front - and obscures the Frank from view. A Pord appears out of the haze to speak up through the din:

Permission to withdraw to the rear, NezhoteJloknam?

The officer turns to look at the Pord; he clutches a stump of an arm and seems to have lost his weapon. She hesitates for a brief instant.

Tasi, tasinehdao, go, she says.

The Pord nods his head slowly and begins to walk back through the smoke towards the rear areas and is soon no longer in view.

She turns back to where the Frank was and the extra dust has cleared but the Atkanite is gone. She raises her sword once more into the air:

Arm bayonets, she yells to both those around her and through her communicator, forward!

The orders spread as do the Chlümüchgrazhnien across Grazhni Yamsai. The naval infantry of her formation, perhaps no more than a company's worth of Pords, begin to rise from their concealed positions. With myriad cries of Chorzhalb! Chorzhalb! Chorzhalb! and the colours of Arctic Willow moving with them, they rush into the forward-most prongs of the Frankish assault - some with bayonets and rifles, others with only swords, and still fewer sprinkled in with heavier anti-vehicle weapons.

New Vulcan, Frankish Right (Pordish Left - Eastern Flank)
Brigade Relychra, Division Arctic Willow
Brigade Support, Division Arctic Willow

The 29th Grenadiers stumble upon the heavily entrenched Rezhnamen infantry who flesh out the supporting battalions of the Arctic Willow's Paramarine Division. Their own garb is modest; armoured breastplates and sections of plate on their limbs distinguish them from the heavy-clad assault Paramarines sporting Polynya type power armour or the simple cobalt tunics of the vessel-crew turned soldiers defending other portions of the line.

The thick smokey haze hides the greater extent of the familiar dark hues of Array shielding that has been erected over the Rezhnamen positions. Hideous walls of fire pour forth from the very edge of these Arrays; sickly rift energies splash towards the incoming Franks accompanied by artillery fire - mobile pieces (much smaller than the static pieces that could not be removed from the vessel-interior) that between them chuck missiles and shell alike.

The desolation, though, is complete; the ground affords no positions of permanency as artillery rains down churning the dirt into a thick morass of putrid filth, both Frankish and Pordish alike, though the Rezhnamen have little hope of matching the power of the Frankish artillery with their own pieces; their mobile batteries are not nearly as powerful as standard towed pieces and the smaller towed pieces that could be wrestled off of Arctic Willow are a far cry from the standard heavy bombardment pieces the combat engineers would much rather enjoy; they are smaller direct-fire piece, used mainly for direct infantry and armour support - they are not optimal for countering hostile firebases.

But the enemy now has elected to attack their positions, and so these pieces are called into action regardless; rounds are not kind to those who find their hostile end, whether they are vast or small. They pour through the shields and into what is quickly becoming a no-man's land that marks the path of the Frankish advance.

Let not the enemy close to the Array.

New Vulcan, Centre
2nd Brigade Assault Paramarine, Division Arctic Willow
1st Brigade Assault Paramarine, Division Arctic Willow

Attack craft incoming! They're closing at speed!

Move to engage them, the wing leader calls to her squadronmate. She tugs on the flight yoke; the heavy gunship responds smartly - its nose pitches up and her engines claw at the column, pulling the craft higher into the air, up and away from the columns of infantry and vehicles she was just attacking.

Her co-pilot chimes in: They're in range!

Target the ten attack craft nearest us, she calls back to her co-pilot.

The Pord nods. He selects the targets and fires; a flurry of charcoal beams emanate forth from the craft towards the incoming Franks, but before any confirmation of success she banks the craft over.

Her wingman, having done the same, is struck by multiple Frankish attacks. The Array of the gunship flickers in the sun before failing; the wing shears off and the craft plummets towards the cold dirt below.

No chute, the co-pilot calls up.

The craft shudders as point defense opens up. They run through the attack pattern again with the remaining gunships; only hers and one other remain.

Strike craft, two o'clock, her co-pilot calls out. The extreme speed of the Franks has allowed them to close to almost gun range. The revelation sits heavy in the pilot's stomach.

Suddenly the craft lurches violently. An explosion of grid energy tears through the fuselage, nearly cleaving the gunship in two. Stubbornly it remains aloft; the co-pilot, still with targeting solutions, sends a few more charcoal beams downrange before the back half of the gunship rips fully free and the craft makes its way back down to the welcoming solidity of New Vulcan.

On the ground, Chükor watches as the air cover disintegrates before the Frankish assault. There isn't much that can be done about the development. He scowls deeply and fires a few rounds off from his GAR as Frankish fire lands somewhere off to his left.

We're moving back on foot, he orders. Gunships are too heavily pressed and can't pick us up.

You're pulling your men back? The Paramarine officer (the commander of the two Paramarine squads that accompany Chükor) calls through the communicator. Through the dust he can be seen standing defiantly; Frankish fire seems to mostly be avoiding him save for a few errant rounds that appear to flash his shields but nevertheless bounce harmlessly away.

We can't stay here, Chükor says.

Above him the final gunship can be seen fighting with what appear to be a trio of Frankish attack craft. The pilot does a series of maneuvers: he pulls an immelman (fires at a Frank at the top of the arc) then rolls over into a dive; the machine only just avoids a stream of missiles. A few more charcoal tinted Array attacks lash out at the Franks before the superior speed of the hostile craft overtake the gunship and, after having failed to secure a kill with missiles and long range grid-fire, pour autocannon fire into its fuselage. The heavy craft belches smoke and drops out of the fight, now burdened with visible course towards the ground.

Chükor frowns again and points to a clump of what used to be trees a few paces north of their position. Here, he says.

Bastards're movin' past us, a Pord to his left calls. The reality of the situation begins to seep in; the Franks are rushing north with great haste. Chükor's advanced position has stranded them in a sea of Atkanites.

Further back, the Paramarine tankers have their hands full. The Urlanns seem to be catching hell, but the Franks are not without teeth. A burrower finds its mark and explodes beneath a Paramarine tank; the PTM, far less durable than the CTM models used by the ZJR, responds poorly to the assault. The force of the blast knocks loose its stabilizers and the hovertank lurches into the air before smashing back down into the dirt. Its crew, dazed from the impact, takes more than a spell to respond. This is their undoing; a quad cannon finds its mark and with a few seconds of sustained fire, shreds through the shields and into the armour. There is a muffled pop!, and then equally muffled screaming, as the black-and-brown collared tankers scramble to flee their burning tomb.

They brought damn burrowers.

Klovnar, though, smiles upon the steel chariots of his children.

The tank platoon holds his ground. The bigger threat are the strikecraft crashing down upon them; the sky is alight with charcoal beams and autocannon fire as the Franks close in to napha and autocannon range, their own dissatisfaction with the efficacy of missiles readily becoming apparent. Two tanks are consumed by horrendous flame, their ability to counter the air inadequate and capacity for survival compromised.

The main positions for the division are behind these advanced units, however, and have scarcely begun to engage. The two heavy Paramarine brigades, with dozens of tanks between them and hundreds of ground vehicles, are mostly defending... Mostly. A battalion of infantry (Südloch's Battalion - a force of roughly 375 men from the 1st Brigade) moves quickly with their fighting vehicles towards the town of Tor'vrak. The brigade commander has urged them to quickly set up positions in the little city - a thorn in the hooves of the ram.


Peterson
Nalydian Empire, System Nalydya
Headquarters of the ZJR; High Tnem-Fragg

A heavy wooden door creaks open.

nam-Peterson, do you have a moment? Reid calls through the crack. A muffled tasi from the interior beckons him forth; he enters the room.

The chamber is poorly lit and largely devoid of fancy or extravagant accouterments: the walls are adorned by neither pelts nor standards; but a single light hangs overhead as sole progenitor of luminescence. Peterson sits behind a simple desk sat near the far end of the room and eyes Reid as he slowly walks through the doors towards him.

Reid - Peterson speaks; he motions to the feldmarschall with his worn hands - must you always bring that with you?

Reid smiles warmly. Of course, he says, with a wave of his baton.

The ZJR head chuckles softly at the gesture. Reid knows how to make an appearance. Even now his immaculately pressed uniform and perfectly trimmed beard seem almost fake; his feldmarschall's baton and deep maroon cape a façade; the pistols slung alongside his hips and spiked helm upon his head beyond reality. Peterson chuckles once more. The contrast to his own air is palpable. Perhaps they've (Murdoch - the VRZ head-
and Peterson, of course) simply been in the military for far too long. His laughter rustles his unkempt uniform: What brings you here?

The Franks, Reid replies without hesitation.

I thought you might show up, Reid, he says. Murdoch told me the news. Looks like Hyth is gunning for the system.

He is, Reid says. And High Hunter Balnook is preparing ground forces to engage there as well.

The caped Feldmarschall stops to let the commentary sink in. Peterson knows what Reid has in mind. And Reid knows that he knows. The ZJR head lifts a small flask to his lips. She is, now?

Tasi, Reid manages the formality. Peterson's fake surprise has not gone beyond him. I have a suspicion this conflict may grow, nam-Peterson. I think it'd be beneficial for us to preempt Frankish ground victory in this system by committing more ZJR assets. I have confidence Hyth can secure the orbitals.

Peterson nods from behind his desk. Murdoch and I spoke on this matter. He's increasing overall readiness and having a few formations remain on standby. I do agree with your assessment, Reid. What have you in mind for this system?

I'd like a few Korps worth of Kenzhelengrazhni Guard. In addition to this, I will be taking elements of my old Mobile Korps, the fifth and sixth Guards Panzer Divisions.

No other higher quality infantry?

Not this time, Reid says, I don't see much reason to bring any others.

The ZJR head continues to nod slowly from behind his desk. The logic overall is sound - a small handful of divisions to act as a core to anchor everything to and then legions of lesser quality troops to absorb losses and, in the event of Hyth's defeat, fight to the last while the much more valuable veterans withdraw from the theatre. He raises his arm up and places it down on the table; his palm is open and faces Reid: Your ORBAT?

Reid nods and reaches into his cape; the crimson accouterment flutters to reveal a scroll which Reid opens and places down on the desk. My preparations and requests, nam-Peterson, he says.

Peterson lifts a worn hand to the scroll. His eyes flash up and down the parchment as he scans the formation names and commanders; many he recognizes and agrees with, others... Not so much. It seems as if only a minute or two pass before he reaches the end of the document. He rolls the scroll back up himself and places it into his desk. You plan on fighting a conventional ground war here, then, Reid?

Peterson's question takes Reid by surprise. Where the Franks are, I will fight them, he says, but only if I have what I need to do so.

Peterson nods. These formations are sound, he tells Reid. I expect it won't take long to gather them. I've already alerted most of our assets of the Frankish threat and readiness is at a much higher level; Murdoch has done the same I know.

That will come in handy, Reid agrees. There's pressuring from High Hunter Balnook right now to rush our formations into this Rastho Prime System, but the men can only move so fast.

Peterson nods once more. The situation almost reminds him of Keegan's foray into Japan - the feldmarschall'd moved onto the shores of that island nation and begun fighting his way inland when the realm surrendered to the nations of the Laptev Axis. This, unsurprisingly, meant Keegan was then invading Laptev territory. The UPEO, among others, demanded he withdraw; there was little he could do. Keegan simply told the Laptevists that he was withdrawing as quickly as possible and that columns of men can only move with so much rapidity. In actuality, his forces withdrew very slowly - snaking columns of gray-clad infantry choked the roads - but the nature of his withdrawal meant there was little to be done about it from the Laptev perspective without igniting open warfare with the Pords.

Don't rush them into the field, Reid, Peterson says in agreement. Take as much time as you need gathering these men; I trust your judgment.

Reid nods.

And if Tylaq or any others have issue with your prudence they can speak with me about it, he finishes.

Peterson salutes and Reid returns the gesture. He quickly signs Reid's request and the caped feldmarschall soon takes his scroll back. I will gather my forces, nam-Peterson. I expect to arrive in the system not long after Keegan. If he expedites his preparations he should be able to depart soon, Reid says. If.

If, Peterson slightly chuckles to himself. Keegan never has been a Pord who rushes things - even when pressured to do so. He will only move as fast as he was already planning, Peterson muses. He looks back to Reid who is looking over the signature on his scroll; the caped feldmarschall is quickly satisfied and tucks the parchment back into its holder.

I do agree that more of our formations need to adopt higher levels of readiness, now, with this conflict considered, Reid says. I wouldn't have guessed Rastho Prime would be a theatre we'd fight in, he continues, no telling where else we may end up.

It's different, isn't it? Peterson questions, the tone of his voice slightly different from before.

Yes, Reid says, it is. We have a real campaign here, not single world with silly polities guarding it, he reminisces.

Peterson chuckles again. You should be free to not hold back. This should make things easier.

Yes, Reid agrees. He looks down at the table with a scrunched brow; thoughts of vast tracks of area shielding and no feasible method of removal flood his mind. If only such things could have been wiped away from orbit... But no, it never is that easy. The Sol Preservation Treaty proved to be a fickle document. My panzertruppen will appreciate the freedom, he says, though Keegan never seemed to mind.

Typical Keegan, though, Peterson replies. Far too meticulous for his own good.

Reid beams; his hand creeps to his forehead in salute.

Peterson waves his own hand through the air: for but a moment it seems almost as if he is motioning for the door, but Reid understands otherwise. The ZJR head looks to Reid directly - makes eye contact - and speaks with heavy words: Be careful, Reid. This system isn't worth losing you and Keegan over.

Reid grins. Tasinehdao!

Peterson watches as the caped feldmarschall turns and heads for the door. He says nothing as the fading sound of boots on the floor reveal Reid's exit; he is silent as the crimson cape flutters around the exit and the door is shut behind it; he merely listens as the sound of Reid's step disappears off into the distance.

He sighs.

[Olimpiada]

---

Aumanil, Eridu

---

They had at least decided not to try shooting him down. That was something. Vaporizing potentially friendly cities was not his objective, after all, and would do little to prop up the fledgling young planetary government.

“I do most certainly appreciate your decision to allow my forces to establish themselves on your world, and I am certain that once the rest of the nation hears, they will feel the same. Allies of any sort are difficult to come by in the vastness of space.” Truthfully, other nations with less xenophobic policies had done far better in this regard. Allies were only really difficult to come by when there was a shortage of xenocidal republics in the galaxy. At least it gave Nassos a hefty helping of job security.

“Foes, however, are less so. This would, of course, include the tens of thousands of alien vessels currently having at one another in the inner system. These range anywhere from about one of your megaduri-” Nassos was probably getting the measuring system right. “- long, to the full five thousand of that accursed Mayan craft. Of course, there’s nearly everything in between up there as well, including our own craft, averaging about two megaduri each. Fortunately, battles are not decided by the size of craft. They are decided by planning, preparation, and precision.”

“Our aim at present is to ensure a strike upon the enemy when they least expect it. We wish to guard Eridu until such time as an enemy is fully engaged in both land and orbit, at which time we shall make our move. Ultimately, we would like to see the entire system cleared of xeno forces in this manner, until it is made safe for the Zergan people.” At this point, there was a legitimate concern in his mind that he was far too long winded. However, he really had nothing to lose by being thorough in his answers either. He continued. “There is a drawback to this strategy: While the Olimpiadan fleets are attacking the enemy, they shall be unable to defend Eridu directly. However, that does bring me to something else relevant: Your orbital infrastructure and fleet. Currently, you appear to have rudimentary satellites focused on basic tasks such as navigation and communication. And there seems to be a lack of warships of any sort.” If there were, the Zergans must have hidden them in an asteroid or something similar; radar and visual scans had revealed nothing.

“As it stands, we’d like to help you fix that.”

---

1.7 billion km from Eridu
FWOS Sharp Infinity

---

The fleet was still burning towards Eridu, at a standard one gravity. The present speed would take them another week to arrive in orbit of the world. Distances near the edge of a system had a tendency towards growing unreasonably large with ease. Michaelides despised it.

“Vatatze, why do you suppose they decided to settle this awful iceball?” Across the brightly lit bridge, his first officer spun around in her chair in response. Dominica Vatatze was tall and blond with a short haircut, the former of the two owing to her upbringing on the low gravity of Ivy.

“Perhaps they didn’t want to deal with the residents of the inner planets?” Her response wasn’t bad, but it was lacking a certain awareness of timescales.

“The Zergans aren’t new here. They arrived centuries ago. They’re roughly on par with the locals right now which means that when they arrived, the Gel’Durk would have been right in the middle of a medieval period. So why not just invade the primitives and get it over with?” The question had been bothering him for a couple days, and talking about it seemed the best fix. It wasn’t like they could do much other than socialize on a long burn like this. Once the computer had figured out the best transfer orbit, the best they could do was to wait.

“I mean, there’s a lot of humans who aren’t aware of the threats posed by xenos. Could be that they were just naive about the whole affair.” She chuckled, a rueful smile spreading across her face. “Look where that got them.”

“The Morimpans probably would have attacked anyway. Maybe they knew that the Morimpans would show up, so they picked a less desirable world?” suggested Michaelides. He wasn’t entirely confident that was correct, however.

“You sure about that? The Morimpans seem about as bent on killing us as we do on them. I doubt they’ll give the Zergans any quarter. Isn’t that why we’re here anyway?” Vatatze raised an excellent point, he had to give her credit. The feds had set him up with a good crew on the Sharp Infinity, and the captains of the other vessels in Nautikos II Rastho weren’t bad either, on the whole.

“I’m here because the government has told me to be here, and I have sold my soul in exchange for land and a pension. The troops can believe whatever the hell they want to. What I believe right about now is that Vaizgamtas is prime territory for us and the Zergans, and that we merely waste time dicking around with diplomacy on that frozen rock. Let’s get them a real world, for fuck’s sake.” Nassos’s insistence on talking things through with the Zergans was infuriating. The best solution was to strongarm the lot of them into behaving, something which Nassos and his by-the-book attitude could never get right. The feds might say to do things a certain way, but any competent admiral would know that anyone who wasn’t on the scene didn’t know anything.

[Ella2 6]

Around New Vulcan, Rastho Prime
ESS Temple of Orion
Admiral Ray Jefferson

The additional propulsion from the ruptured fuel tanks was much greater than anyone had previously anticipated. The extended acceleration was welcomed by the accident-stricken crew who took kindly to any break from combat that was on offer. The vessel continued to leave a heavy smoke trail in its wake as it powered on through the void, maintaining a course just one step ahead of the Morimpan pursuers. However, all good things must come to an end and as the leak eventually stopped and the rearward force pushing the ship forward faded away, the engineering department brought forth grim tidings.

"Sir, the leak appeared to have been far more extensive than we had believed. The port segments of our main tanks are empty and several strafe thrusters have also lost power. The twelfth gun battery is leaking plasma into the stern. We're just closing the valves on it now." He paused to take a breath. "The good news is the fire's almost starved itself out which means we can get a team to repair the AI's core. I don't think here Cropper likes flying manual."

The helmsman shook his head at that. "No, I don't," he agreed, "get that AI back online before I crash this thing."

The Engineer regarded Cropper with an expression that can only be described as a tired disappointment. "You can't crash something that can't move," he observed dryly.

"Watch me," Cropper replied sternly. The other man sighed at his matter-of-fact tone.

Ray shook his head. "Do what you need to do," he told the two of them, "How're the repairs on the radio transceiver coming along?"

"We can get that back up and running in ten minutes," the Engineer claimed. His assurance was appreciated.

"We haven't got ten minutes." They turned to see the Observer. He stood on the elevated observation platform, studying the sensors data. He selected a large telescope from his workstation and pointed his free hand aftwards. "Morimpans would be upon us in exactly six minutes," he declared, "There appears to be significantly less of them, however. At least as far as I can tell anyways. I'll give you more info once that smokescreen clears a bit more, Sir." With his report complete, he hopped off the observatory and quickly made his way astern to where a similar lookout position was established.

Ray considered this news with a hint of animosity. "Can you rush those repairs?"

The engineer inclined his head somewhat uncertainly. "We'll try our best, Sir, but I make no promises," he said, "You must understand, some things cannot be rushed." Ray nodded, satisfied with this response and dismissed the man with a wave of the hand. However, the soldier had not concluded his report yet. "We can still turn the ship around, Sir. The strafe thrusters that are still operational should be sufficient to rotate the ship for a while yet. At least then we can have the armoured prow pointed at them."

Ray recognised the wisdom in the clone's proposal. The stern was by far the most vulnerable section of an Ellian warship, housing both the primary thrusters and the core of the AI and other computerised systems of the vessel in the tail section. The engineering bay was also located in that area and a little further toward the bow was the reactors and the shield generators. Should a Morimpan gunner get lucky the results would be devastating, to say the least. "Clapper, turn us around."

"Right away, Sir," he affirmed. He too recognised the importance of presenting the bow to the enemy and sensed the reasoning behind the command. "I'll keep the prow pointed that them should that overtake us."

"Declare action stations, gentlemen!" Ray ordered, "Get a message to Vice Admiral Butlar, I'm transferring field command to her station." A coded radio message was dispatched to the Vice Admiral's vessel, one of the two halcyon-class carriers in the formation. Ellian radio communications still used rudimentary coding methods akin to Morse code. It was universally accepted across the UAR that anyone with a copy of the Ellian alphabet and a decent AI would be able to crack the cypher in mere seconds.

A few moments after the radio message was dispatched, the lights above the carrier flashed in response. The light array was the contemporary method of coding used in Ellian battlefield communications. The nine powerful lamps could flash in over a thousand patterns to deliver a single message. It would take a ship-borne AI several hours of intensive calculations to decode messages sent this way.

"The Spear of Slora is replying," the Communications Officer advised, "They said: "Maintain velocity with the Temple of Orion and hold the line.""

"Felicia doesn't waste time on pleasantries," Ray chuckled. The bridge crew, which had been unusually silent during the discourse, smiled quietly to themselves. Most of them have heard about the Vice Admiral's no-nonsense attitude from their fellow starsailors stationed aboard her ship over cups of coffee in starports. "Poor bastards," they used to call them.

There was a long stretch of silence before the Observer broke it. He cleared his throat, disturbed by the strange calm which has settled over the bridge. Usually, the bridge consumed would be consumed by a flurry of confused shouting once general quarters was declared. "Over thirty Morimpan ships and counting, Sir. We're almost in their effective range." He turned to the tactical department. "Aren't they firing at us yet?"

"They probably haven't realised we're immobile yet," the Chief Tactical Officer replied.

"All the better for us then," Ray said. Those around him muttered their agreement. In truth, no one really liked being shot at, but it was an inevitable part of their profession. "Weapons free. I want one volley of blanks thrown at them and then await my orders. You may fire when ready." The Fire Control officer nodded and relayed the order. There was a brief pause before the Ellian flagship let off a loose salvo of blank shots. Blanks, in essence, were plasma discharges without using a magnetic core to contain the plasma bolt.

The shots smashed into the Morimpan ranks some minutes later, the plasma, having mostly expanded and dissipated, did no serious damage to the Morimpan vessels, but it was an unpleasant surprise for the ocean-going warmongers. The Morimpans seemed to hesitate for a second, before realising no further shots were coming their way. Somehow boldened by this initial volley, they surged forward at greater speeds, resigned to believing the Ellian warning shot was a failed attempt to keep them at bay. This was, of course, exactly where Ray wanted them.

"Morimpans closing into outer engagement envelope," the Tactical officer reported, "two minutes before they enter effective firing range."

More Morimpan vessels emerged from the smokescreen left behind, for a moment their heat signatures were masked by the cloud and then suddenly the sensors were pinged with dozens more contacts at once. "Eighty-two Morimpan vessels," the observer noted, worry evident in his tone. Others with access to sensors data echoed their affirmations grimly.

"Sir, the Spear of Slora is transmitting a message," The Comms Officer announced, "they said: "All stations, reporting the location of a strategic target," the coordinates are 972-276-322."

The Observer took a moment to study the star charts before pointing his telescope in the indicated direction. After a while of scanning, he had found his mark. "Morimpan dreadnought sighted."

"You heard the lady, concentrate fire on the dreadnought."

"Yes, Admiral." Came the reply. "Targetting enemy dreadnought."

The floor rumbled as the extensive gun batteries below spewed forth a burst of bright blue bolts. These rounds managed to retain their cohesion as they closed with the Morimpans positions thanks to powerful magnetic cores holding them together. Other vessels followed suit, adding a combination of cored and un-corded rounds to the fray. The Observer's spyglass raised itself to his eye after the weapon reports were halted.

"Enemy returning fire," he stated, "kinetic rods and missiles inbound." As if on cue, a pair of kinetics flashed past on either side of the vessel in rapid succession. The prow lit up as point defence systems attempted to intercept them, mostly to no avail. A pair of plasma machine guns had managed to score a glancing hit on one of them before the gunners realised the projectiles were not going to hit the ship.

"Looks like they haven't realised we can't move," Tactical remarked, "They're still accounting for evasive manoeuvres."

"I hope they don't figure it out too soon," Clapper added, "If they start sniping the bridge, we're all screwed." There was no response to him. The bridge officers were all well aware of the consequences of such and mostly avoided talking about it where possible. After all, it did not do a lot to morale to mention how one would likely die in the near future.

---

Orbit of Ashen, Acheia
Headquarters of the Royal Starfleet
Viola Larson, Admiral of the Royal Starfleet

The Headquarters of the Royal Starfleet was a grand masterpiece of orbital infrastructure rivalled only by the skeleton of its sister station still being built, designed to house the Royal Reserves. Part command centre, part starport, part military base and part shipyard, the space station was an immense network of docks, foundries, command modules and a barracks large enough to house an entire army of clones with enough room to spare for the fleet personnel.

The blue marble world of Ashen rotated slowly below the massive space station, an equally expansive sprawl of concrete, glass and plasteel loomed underneath. The lights of the capital city of the United Autonomous Republics, Primus Centurus, flooded the surface with golden rings, somewhat resembling ancient crop circles farmers once observed in their fields. The biweekly passing over the capital city held special reservations for most starsailors, being one of the few respites to the routine workflow on the station. But Viola Larson, the Admiral of the Royal Fleet, failed to find joy in today's passing. In another minute or so, she would be asked to present a talk to the highest echelons of the Military concerning the developments around Rastho Prime. And their conclusions they may draw from her analysis may very well decide whether the UAR was to remain at war or peace.

A group of identical teenage girls clad in the fatigues of the clone cadets squealed excitedly outside of the Fleet Admiral's office as they observed - perhaps for the first time in their lives at such a proximity to the planet - the glimmer of the sea of lights coming into full view. The class instructor smiled patiently as she leant against the thick glass window, waiting till the panorama passed so that she could continue the tour of the station's defences with her students. Their cries were dampened considerably following the soft hiss of the doors as they closed. A pair of heels clicked loudly. Viola allowed her gaze to slide up from her tablet, currently displaying an electronic presentation she had just finished.

"Admiral." It was her aide, a pink-haired lass that was the preview of what the girls outside would become in a few more years. These next few years could turn those girls from children to soldiers, fully capable of defending the UAR against threats. These next few years could also turn the UAR into a pile of ruins and rubble in the midst of a galactic war. "The Chiefs of Staff are requesting your presence in the meeting room."

"Of course they are," she muttered as she came to her feet, picking up her tablet and sword from the table, "fetch me my tie." It would not do to be out of uniform for such a formal meeting after all. And while her desk job required roughly the same standards, she knew better than to strangle herself whilst she was sitting down for hours on end. The sword was a somewhat separate matter altogether. Whilst not technically considered part of the uniform, it was unacceptable to catch an Ellian officer without their ceremonial arms within easy reach.

Her aide wasted no time collecting her tie and helping her superior put it on. "Lock up the office for me, would you please, Slim?" Viola asked as the lieutenant adjusted her tie for her.

"Yes, Ma'am."

---

The heavy door slid effortlessly open with a soft hiss, apparently unconcerned with its own weight. Light was spewed into the dark interior of the meeting room, as opposed to shining out considering the lights in the hallway were dimmed. It was a running joke in the starbase that the Chiefs of Staff were creatures of the darkness, in truth, the room housed photo-sensitive equipment which shunned the excess light. Viola stepped in quickly and the door closed automatically behind her.

"Admiral Larson," a warm voice greeted. Two portraits smiled at her from the far wall. The third screen between them flashed before it joined the other two.

She bowed; a small bow from the waist. "Lord Admiral Blacke," she called in return, nodding to him as she said his name, "Lord General Woulds. Lord Marshal Saunders."

They waited in silence for the fourth screen furthest to Viola's right to flash on, but it never did. "What's talking Williamson so long?" The Lord General asked. The others shrugged uncertainly. "He's usually never late to a meeting." Her remark was met with silence, but it had not gone unheard; the others were nodding in affirmation. "Perhaps we ought to start now. We can brief him on the details later."

"Of course, Ma'am," Viola agreed and with the flick of her glass tablet she sent her recently completed presentation onto the wall opposite the video caller's faces. The first slide of the presentation displayed a detailed map of the Rastho Prime system. Setting her sword down against the wall, she proceeded to the middle of the screen. "This is Rastho Prime, home of the Gel'Durk and the Zergan peoples. It is a binary system close to the edge of the Orion Spur." The others nodded. They were all familiar with the system by now, and if they were not, this presentation was designed to bring them up to speed.

She tapped the screen which responded smartly to her touch. Several fleet formations appeared on the display and the map itself rotated with the slightest movement of her hands. "As you know, we have a defence pact signed with the Gel'Durk as well as many others around this area." As she spoke, the map zoomed out to the local sector and the various primitive civilisations within the area were highlighted. "The natures of these pacts we all understand." She temporarily locked camera movement with a small clap of the hands.

"The Morimpans have been violating this demilitarised zone for several months now and so far we had allowed them to because they were not causing any problems..." She clapped again and zoomed the map back down to Rastho Prime. "... That was until a month ago when they attacked Rastho Prime and several other systems where the natives were advanced enough to field fleets." Flags and other unit counters were placed onto the map to reflect the positions of various forces from when she was late updated on them.

"Like most others, the Gel'Durk didn't have advanced enough communications to contact us until last week, and by then, there have already been fierce fighting in and around the system. The Gel'Durk navy was annihilated, but the army managed to repel the Morimpans when they attempted to occupy the planet." She paused to check if the others were following so far. Their expressions were varied, but confusion was not one of them. She continued.

"The first scouting force we sent in there was destroyed with only one survivor. That ship limped back to us to confirm that the Morimpans were indeed hostile. Since then, the Dominion has sent in two fleets to investigate: the Royal Star Scouts and the 1st Starfleet. GESO has also sent in fleets to investigate the matter. E-LAWN has lost contact with both our fleets and they were initially presumed destroyed. However, we later found out through GESO intel feeds that both are still very much active and operational. E-LAWN has been unable to figure out why they have lost contact with the fleets, but GESO offers a potential explanation."

The map was updated with a series of indicators showing where interdiction buoys were located in the system. "Interdiction fields have been set up around the system by the Morimpans as well as the Pordish and Frankish forces there." The Lord Marshal opened his mouth to pose a question but Viola stopped him quickly. "I'll get to them in a second, Sir." He seemed satisfied with this arrangement and allowed her to continue uninterrupted. "It is suspected that these fields are blocking our Q-comms which is why the connection to E-LAWN has been severed."

"The current situation in Rastho Prime is dire, as it is across the entire front." The map was zoomed back out to the region, this time showing Morimpan-controlled territory and GESO/UAR aligned regions. "Across the front, GESO and Dominion forces have been steadily pushed back by the Morimpan Navy. Several systems belonging to native populations have already fallen and the GESO and the Dominion are doing their best to evacuate those that remain."

"Recently, reports indicate the GESO forces have retreated from Rastho Prime under orders to preserve manpower." This news was met with disapproval from those assembled. "That has yet to be confirmed, however," she quickly reminded them, "But this only leaves a handful of allied forces in the system. I will update you on who they are and their numbers when our estimates arrive at my office, which is due out in about five minutes."

At that time, the fourth screen finally flashed on and the Cheif of the Royal Ashen Guard greeted them, his complexion troubled and his uniform unkempt. "Sorry I'm late," he stated, half-winded from presumably rushing to get online, "There was an earthquake in Trina, I had to see to that first." The others nodded in understanding. He settled in. "What did I miss?"

"You didn't miss much, Sir," Viola replied, "I was just bringing everyone up to speed on the events in and around Rastho Prime,"

He nodded, "I am very familiar with the happening in that particular theatre," he claimed. This came as no surprise to them. As the Cheif of the Royal Ashen Guard, the Lord General had the lightest workload of them all, allowing him the leisure of keeping himself up-to-date on the latest news from around the UAR. "Please continue, Admiral."

Viola inclined her head in agreement. "GESO forces in Ratho Prime are currently outnumbered and outgunned, but holding." There was a soft ping. She glanced at her tablet and smiled. "The numbers are in," she declared happily and forwarded the intelligence report to her superiors. They looked down as they received it and she gave them time to absorb the information. They returned their attention to her with grim expressions.

"As I said, allied forces are both outnumbered and outgunned. The Frankish fleet numbers over eighty thousand and the Mayan presence, whilst smaller in terms of numbers, are more commanding." She brought up an image of the twenty-two hundred metres long Nohoch Chempan with measurements around the craft for them to see. If their expressions were grim before, it could only be described as ghastly now.

"Rastho Prime is more important than all the other systems combined because it guards one of the few routes into the UAR proper. Without the other systems, the UAR would be slowed. Without Rastho Prime, the UAR would be directly threatened." They could all see how urgent the situation was and eagerly awaited her conclusion on the matter.

"My proposal is, therefore, to dispatch the Royal Starfleet to Rastho Prime with the task of holding the system. With the remainder of allied forces in the region, we may be able to secure the systems once more and push back outwards. Should Rastho Prime fall, this would buy us several months so our reserve forces can properly muster. This would also allow Rastho Prime to become a fallback point for all allied forces in the sector."

"Is this your only option, Admiral?" It was Blacke. As the Chief of the Royal Starfleet, he understood the difficulties of activating the reserve forces. The Royal Reserves were a junkyard of old vessels, no longer suitable to keep in active service but were not decommissioned or scrapped due to various reasons. Some vessels were no longer combat-fit and others were without a crew and had to have a new one drafted in. Some vessels were in fact so old that the current generation of starsailors could not hope to operate them and would have to be retrained. Despite the Admiral of the Royal Reserve's best efforts to keep the force cohesive, maintaining these rusted hulls were considered too much of a strain on the federal budget and most funding was halted altogether. Of the twenty thousand or so vessels that made up the Royal Reserves, only a fraction of them could be readily deployed.

"No, Lord Admiral," Viola admitted, "but it is our best option for the foreseeable future." She also understood that the Royal Starfleet was, in essence, the last line of defence the UAR has to foreign threats and to deploy the force in such a manner was a serious gamble. But all pieces of evidence pointed toward the risk being acceptable.

"Thank you, Admiral Larson," the Lord Marshal said simply, "You are dismissed."

Viola bowed again, picked up her sword and briskly made for the door. There was a storm coming, and she must prepare for it.

---

The great mass of the Plaiedas, the flagship of the Royal Starfleet loomed above them. The massive glass windows above them reveal its graceful dominance. The vessel was truly an impressive sight regardless of how many times Viola has seen it before. Troops funnel through the tunnelway that was the pier and into the retractable bridge connecting the airlocks of the station and the vessel but she ignored them. Instead, her attention was focused on another man standing off to the side of the airlock.

"Admiral Warren sends his apologies for not being able to come down and say farewell in person," the man said. His shoulder flashes revealed his rank as the Grand General of the First Clone Legion.

Viola sighed but nodded in understanding. "So High Command greenlighted the defence of Rastho Prime after all," she said simply.

The Grand General nodded, his expression grim. "You seem surprised, Admiral. This was your idea after all," he replied.

"Yes, but I was hoping they'd reject it," she said with a sad smile, "thought they might have been too paranoid to move the fleets."

"That's not beyond them," he chuckled in agreement. They stood in silence for a while, simply enjoying the presence of old comrades, both understood this may be the last time they could speak in person.

A clone came out from the tunnel leading into the vessel and performed the rigid salute. "Sorry to interrupt, Sir. Ma'am. Admiral Warren wishes to get going."

"Of course," the army commander agreed. They shook hands firmly. "Until next time, Admiral Larson."

"Yes. Send my regards to Admiral Warren. You two take care of yourself out there. Rastho Prime is not worth dying over. We still need you back here."

"We'll see what we can do," he smiled.

They saluted each other and the Grand General boarded the ship. The airlocks closed quickly and the grinding of gears was inaudible as the starship retracted its extendable bridge. She could only watch as the mighty vessel turned and joined the fleet formation in the distance. In the blink of an eye, it was gone, hurtling through the void at speeds greater than the speed of light.

Viola turned on her heels and made her way back to her office, her footfalls disturbingly lonely in the abandoned corridors of the station.